THE TEMPTATIONS OF MERLIN

PETER TREMAYNE

Peter Tremayne is no stranger to the Arthurian world. Under his real name of Peter Berresford Ellis (b. 1943) he has written over a dozen books on Celtic history and mythology, including the definitive The Celtic Empire (1990) and Celt and Saxon (1993), plus A Dictionary of Celtic Mythology (1992). Under the Tremayne alias he has written nearly thirty books, including two excellent collections of Irish horror and fantasy stories, My Lady of Hy-Brasil (1987) and Aisling (1992). He has more recently found fame with his novels about Sister Fidelma, a seventh-century advocate and investigator of the Brehon Court, whose adventures are set to rival Brother Cadfael’s. The series begins with Absolution By Murder (1994) and Shroud for an Archbishop (1995). The following long story endeavours to present the historical Celtic world of Merlin.

I

The tall man paused in mid-stride. He stood head to one side in a listening attitude. A frown disfigured the ugly features of his black bearded face. Then he scowled, making his expression even more hideous.

He was a heavily built man, a warrior by the cut of his clothes, his breastplate and helmet. He carried his double-edged sword in his right hand while a small rounded shield protected his other side, hanging from his left shoulder. Great muscles rippled under the bronzed skin of the giant, for he stood not short of seven feet in height. His features were marred by a grim and repulsive countenance accentuated with a white weal of a scar running from the corner of his left eye across his cheek before disappearing into his bushy beard. Even in repose, as he stood listening, his whole appearance was threatening.

He waited a moment in the narrow defile of a forest path, hemmed in by towering oaks and closely growing undergrowth. It was dark among the trees although, beyond the flickering branches above him, there was an impression of sunshine and blue skies.

The big warrior sniffed the air suspiciously, inhaling the musty smells of the dank forest.

To his ears came the sound of rushing water, the babbling of a fast flowing stream, not too far away.

He grimaced again and eased the weapon in his grip before continuing his forward movement along the path. In spite of his big frame and his heavy build, the warrior moved quietly. His feet seemed to meet the earth so lightly that no twig snapped nor leaf rustled under their impact.

He came upon the bank of the stream with an abruptness, moving from the darkness of the forest into an area of bright noonday light where the broader defile of a swift flowing mountain stream snaked its way through the tightly growing trees. The stream gushed and bubbled in its downward path over grey granite rocks, heading down the slopes of the mountain towards the valley below.

The big warrior smiled, dropped to one knee and, swiftly moving his sword from right to left hand, placed his hand into the water. It was icy cold to his touch. His smile broadened and he looked carefully about him, transferring his weapon back to his sword hand again. Rising to his full height again, he began to move cautiously downstream.

He had not gone many yards before he saw the figure.

Seated with his back to him in the middle of that icy stream was a naked youth. The cold waters pounded against him, the white foam gushed over his pale skin and the youth’s long, silver-blond hair, which fell over his shoulders, sparkled with the droplets of its spray. The youth was seated alone in the middle of the surging current, crossed legs, hands resting loosely in his lap. His age could have been no more than a score of years.

The giant warrior’s grim smile widened now and he carefully picked his way along the bank. Hardly a sound came from his stealthy movement. And if a sound were made, surely it would have been silenced by the surge of the mountain current?

Yet, suddenly, the body of the youth, still with his back to the oncoming warrior, stiffened almost imperceptibly and then relaxed again.

“I hear you, Mawr,” the youth called. His voice was strong, belying the fragility of his slight frame.

The warrior halted and blinked. A slight look of annoyance crossed his features. He let out a soft exhalation of breath.

“Then come out and defend yourself, Plentyn-Maeth,” he commanded.

The youth rose from his sitting position in the cold waters which now came up to just above his knees. Slowly he turned to face the giant warrior.

The youth’s body was white-skinned and not well-muscled. At first glance, it seemed frail-looking, but the sinews were stringy and disguised a toughness. It was a lean body, perhaps a little too thin. But it was not the body that attracted the attention so much as the hard, angular face of the youth. The features were not handsome but they were commanding. The long silver-blond hair was striking and enhanced the eyes which, initially, seemed deep blue but on a closer look were orbs of near sapphire without pupils. They flickered with a strange light. The mouth was thin, the lips unusually red, as if the effect were achieved by artificial means.

It was clear that the youth was deathly cold from sitting in meditation in the icy current, yet he held his body easily and made no attempt to move his limbs to restore his stunted circulation.

“Well, Mawr?”

In spite of the fact that the youth had no weapon and was naked, the giant warrior fell into a fighting crouch, the tip of his sword started to describe wicked little circles in the air.

With deliberate slowness of motion, the youth moved to the bank of the stream and emerged to stand a few feet away from the menacing warrior.

He stood still, no emotion showing on his features.

Suddenly the warrior gave a roar, undoubtedly meant to freeze his prey, for surely the naked youth was no opponent, and rushed forward, his sword swinging.

It was difficult to see what happened exactly. One second it seemed that the youth was about to be spitted on the end of the mighty blade of the warrior, the next the warrior was sprawling on the ground and the youth was standing staring down at him with folded arms. There was no expression on the angular face.

The warrior leapt to his feet with a swiftness that belied his huge bulk.

The sword swung again.

The youth moved with a precipitance that no eye could follow. He rushed in under the sword arm, twisting slightly as his hands caught at the wrist of the giant. There was a rapid motion, and the warrior was sprawling on his back again, staring stupidly up at the youth.

Again, with an alacrity that was scarcely credible for his bulk, the warrior was on his feet once more, roaring in battle fury and striking out left, right and centre.

The naked youth responded to the strokes as if he were engaged in some awesome dance, playing with death itself. The grim dance ended with the great warrior sprawled against a tree, gasping for breath, for the youth had kicked out with both feet into the tall man’s solar plexus in a two-footed blow that sent the warrior flying.

The youth stood, hands on hips, frowning down at the tall man.

“Well, Mawr?” he asked laconically.

The giant warrior shook his head as if to clear his confused thoughts. Then he lifted it back and gave a great roar. This time it was not a roar of battle anger but a great guffaw of laughter that set his giant frame quivering. He stabbed his sword into the ground and reached forward an outsized hand to the boy.

“You have done well, Plentyn-Maeth! Now the pupil has become the master.”

For the first time, the youth addressed as Plentyn-Maeth allowed a small smile to align his thin lips.

“Is it truly said, Mawr?”

The great warrior, called Mawr, clapped the youth on the back.

“Truly said, Plentyn-Maeth. Now let us collect your clothes for the Venerable Fychan wishes to see you.” The warrior picked up his sword and sheathed it. “Never has anyone bested me in all three passes after the water test. Indeed, it was truly said. One day you may become a Master even as the Venerable Fychan.”

II

“Mawr tells me that you have done well, Plentyn-Maeth.”

The old man sat shrouded in a heavy white lambswool cloak in the darkness of the room. He sat on a tripod stool before a smoky fire. On the walls of the room a few burning brand torches gave out a flickering and unsatisfactory light.

The youth, now dressed in warm plaid trousers and a linen tunic, over which a sleeveless lambswool coat was belted at the waist, stood silently before him.

The old man, the Venerable Fychan, chief Druid of the Isle of the Mighty, gazed at the youth with brightly sparkling grey eyes which burnt curiously in the reflected light of the torches.

“You do not speak, Plentyn-Maeth?”

“There is nothing to say. If Mawr says I have done well, that is his opinion and does not need my opinion to balance it.”

The Venerable Fychan gave a wheezy cough as he stifled a laugh.

“You are correct, Plentyn-Maeth. Yet I will confirm that you have done well. You are now at the age of choice and your learning here is done. You have succeeded in every test that is allowed. You have shown that you are the master of all the skills which a ‘man of oak wisdom’ should have before he goes forth into this theatening world of ours.”

The old man suddenly raised a skeletal arm and beckoned the youth to approach him.

“Come, boy, and sit at my feet for a while. There are some things I must tell you before you leave this place.”

Frowning slightly, the youth addressed as Plentyn-Maeth moved forward and settled himself in a cross-legged posture before the old master.

“You know well, my boy, that there is a new religion taking over this land of ours; this land of Britain which was once known as the Isle of the Mighty. Alas, we are no longer mighty. First the Romans came and occupied our shores for over three centuries before they departed. By the time we Britons emerged again as free and independent, most of our people had accepted the new religion which the Romans spread in their wake.”

The youth nodded slowly. Surely everyone knew these facts?

“But, Venerable Fychan, some of us still retained the old ways, the old religion and knowledge,” he pointed out.

“This is so. But I have seen the beginning of the end, for the old ways will eventually pass. What concerns me more is that two generations ago, after the Romans had left, new would-be conquerors came to our shores.”

The youth grimaced.

“The Saxons! Who does not know this?”

“Indeed, the Saxons who are without religion other than the desire to destroy and conquer. Vortigern, our High King, learnt the cost of trusting a Saxon’s word. Emrys then united our people and, for a while, he drove the Saxon invaders into the extremities of this island, back to the shores of the land of the Cantii, but they regrouped and came on again. Now the battle raven is continually flying out of the east in this struggle and not from the west.”

“Is there no hope of defeating the Saxons, master?”

“Just one hope. I have seen a vision that there will come a bear from the west and drive all before him and his name will be spoken of down the centuries. Indeed, over a thousand years from now, even the descendants of his enemies will acclaim him as a great hero.”

Plentyn-Maeth stared curiously at the old Druid.

“A bear from the west?”

“Even so. And for him we must keep the old faith and the old knowledge alive for it will only be through the old knowledge that he will triumph over his enemies, both the enemies of his own race as well as the Saxon foemen.”

“When will this saviour of Britain appear, master?”

Fychan smiled and shook his white locks gently.

“I know that he already walks our land, but it is not given me to foretell the exact date of his victories. I see the green fields redden with the blood of heroes, and … after … there will be a golden age for our people.”

“This is great knowledge, master,” breathed the youth.

The old man gazed down with his twinkling grey eyes.

“It will come to pass, Plentyn-Maeth. It will come to pass so long as there are some among us that cleave to the old knowledge, the old religion which took our forefathers on the raven’s wing to breach the walls of Rome, to defeat the generals of the Macedonian emperors and to come through the gorges of Parnassos to sack the shrine of Delphi and defy the gods of the Greeks. It is the same religion which spread the raven’s wing into the east and into the west and from north to south. We walked upright once and so shall we walk upright again.”

There was a silence in the room of Fychan.

“Why do you tell me this, master?” asked Plentyn-Maeth after a while.

The old man coughed a little. Then he sighed.

“Your destiny is woven in the destiny of our people, Plentyn-Maeth. Beware of the new religion. Beware of the followers of Christ for their creed is weakening our people. While the Saxons strike us down, these followers of Christ tell us that to take arms against them even in our defence is wrong. They say that we must forgive them; that we must love them; that to fight them is more evil than the wrong they do to us.”

Plentyn-Maeth pursed his thin red lips in disapproval.

“I know their teachings well enough.”

“They would weaken us and allow the Saxons to overwhelm us. Soon you will go out into this unhappy world. When you do so, beware of these Christians. Never reveal that you are a Druid except to those you would trust your life to; never reveal your power to any save only those same people.”

“That I will do, master.”

“Many of our brethren have been persecuted unjustly by these Christians, Plentyn-Maeth. Trust them not.”

“It shall be so.”

“Are you ready to face the outside world, Plentyn-Maeth?” the old man suddenly asked after a pause.

The youth sat for a while in silence while he contemplated the prospect.

“Yes.”

The old man smiled sadly.

“You are not fearful about the unknown?”

“Have you not taught, of all passions fear weakens judgement most?”

The Venerable Fychan nodded slowly.

“Yet, I have also taught, danger breeds best on too much confidence.”

The youth’s features betrayed a slight conceit.

“I am ready to face the outside world, master.”

“If you say so, it shall be so. Yet remember this, the knowledge which stops at what it does not know, is the highest knowledge.”

The youth frowned slightly, hesitated and then said: “Well, I would know more about myself, master.”

“More? Is there more to know?”

“I don’t know who I am.”

“That can only be decided by you.”

“I meant, I do not know who my parents were.”

The old man, seeing the expression on the youth’s face, suddenly relented.

“I did not mean to mock you. Truly, my son, there is little I can tell you except that you were a foundling. You were six months old when you were found at the house of Dolwar, my steward. None ever knew nor discovered who you were. You were wrapped in a single blanket and on that blanket was embroidered the symbol of a curious knot.”

“A knot, Venerable Fychan?”

The old Druid turned to a box, opened it and drew forth a piece of blanket.

“I knew you might ask about this one day. I have kept it safe. Here is that same blanket. Take it with you and you might come to know your destiny.”

The youth glanced down and saw, indeed, a curious patterned knot had been embroidered on the section of blanket. “It is richly worked,” he observed.

“You were fostered by us and brought up in the knowledge of the old ways. This is why we named you Plentyn-Maeth, the foster-child.

“When you set out now, it will be the start of your journey to discover your self and your destiny. I can only tell you this; your journey lies east. Travel east until you find the symbol of the knot. That is your quest, Plentyn-Maeth.”

“It is little enough to know of oneself.”

Fychan grinned at the youth.

“Look into your mind, Plentyn-Maeth. You know everything there is to know about yourself. What you are asking is merely the superficial.”

“But,” protested the youth, “how do you know that the symbol of this knot can be found east of here?”

Fychan raised his eyebrows in marked censure.

“You question your master? Ah, truly you have come of age. Tell me, my foster-son, what will the weather be like this evening?”

Plentyn-Maeth wondered why the old master was changing the subject.

“It will be raining.”

“How do you know this? Beyond these walls it is a fine, bright day.”

“Easy to say. To the south-west there are many round-topped clouds with their bases flattened. The wind is from that direction and so they will bring rain, sudden and short lived.”

Fychan nodded amiably.

“And as you know this, which many will find beyond their understanding, allow me to know what I know.”

Plentyn-Maeth sighed deeply but he said no more and rose to his feet.

“You have said that I have passed all the tests required of me, master. When may I become an adept of the ancient knowledge? When may I be of the ancient order?”

The Venerable Fychan’s face was expressionless.

“It will require no words of mine to make you so. You will become an adept once you have discovered the purpose of your quest in life.”

Plentyn-Maeth nearly forgot himself by raising his eyebrows in surprise. The grin of delight was stilled on his face.

“But I know that quest now. Does that mean that I may set forth from here now?”

“If you believe that you know this purpose, you may do so. We have nothing more to teach you. You can now only instruct yourself. If you do not know now, then you will surely learn as you go. There is nothing more to bind you to this place. Remember, though, it is only when you leave this place that you will start to accrue the true knowledge. Be humble and learn well.”

Yet the youth’s face was also filled with pride.

“You now have only yourself to rely on,” insisted the Venerable Fychan. “Remember this, knowledge without thought is toil wasted. Thought without knowledge is a perilous path.”

The youth’s face was a picture of excitement. He began to rise. The old master held up a thin, bony hand to stay him.

“But one thing more; since Dolwar found you at the portal of our house, we have simply called you Plentyn-Maeth, which means ‘the foster-child’. Once you step out into the world you will no longer be a foster-child but, having reached the age of choice, you will be fully in charge of your own destiny. You will need a new name.”

The youth looked puzzled.

“But what name shall I have?”

The Venerable Fychan smiled gently.

“It is as your foster father that I have the right to name you. In all your tests you have excelled. In every art you have shown your abilities. In no area were you lacking. Therefore I shall name you Myrddin, or ‘many’, signifying the many talents which you possess.”

The youth blinked a little.

“Myrddin.” He carefully enunciated the name. “Myrddin. I shall like that name.”

The old master, Fychan, rose unsteadily and moved forward to embrace the youth now standing before him.

“Go, then, Myrddin. Set out on your quest to find yourself, to find your destiny. Remember all that I have told you and all that you have learned in these mountains that are sacred to our order. But I urge you again to guard against the evil of vanity. You are still young in years and no one, not even I, am possessed of all knowledge. We are constantly learning even at the hour of our death. Should the time come when you have need of advice, then we shall be here.”

Only when he had left the house of the Venerable Fychan did the youth, Myrddin, allow a tear to stain his cheek. But his face was set and he walked with a firm and steady gait away from the only world that he could truly call “home”. At the same time as the regret of parting, some inner part of him tingled with excitement and happiness. It was a curious contradiction but he did not want to analyse his feelings now. Above all his confused and contradictory emotions he had a sense of … of destiny. If he had admitted it, he also had a sense of youthful pride for knowledge of things may not necessarily be a knowledge of self-awareness.

III

Myrddin had been riding for two days across the broad mountains of the west of the Isle of the Mighty and down among the foothills, moving ever eastward. He did not know why he had taken this route, only that he was following the suggestion of the Venerable Fychan. In truth, he had never been beyond the Island of the Druids before, the small island which lay just west of the mainland. He had set forth eagerly, purchasing a horse on the way. The regret at leaving Fychan and Mawr and all his fellow students and teachers was still tempered by the exhilaration of a sense of freedom, of the purpose of questing.

He rode his black mare with a feeling of relaxation yet his eyes were never still, they were aware of everything around him, taking in the new sights and memorizing the paths. Yet as wary as he was, he had a youth’s exuberance of independence, of being special in this new, exciting world which lay before him.

He had come to a knoll and from its bare top he halted and surveyed the countryside before him. The small, rounded hill rose, bald except for heather and brush, in the middle of a forest land. He saw that three trails met and divided again at the foot of the hill. There was the trail by which he had come to that place, a trail to the east and a well-worn track which ran on a north to south axis, or south to north, depending on the prospect of the traveller.

Myrddin paused a while in the warming rays of the midday sun, leaning forward in the saddle, resting on its pommel, and wondering if he should deflect his path from due east, turning north or south.

It was then he became aware of the approach of two horsemen from the south. He noticed immediately that one of the approaching riders was elderly, for the man was stooped forward in the saddle, his body frail. His long white hair could be seen wisping from his burnished helmet. Myrddin’s eyes narrowed as he saw that the elderly man was clad not only in warrior’s armour but that he wore a rich cloak and his horse was well accoutred.

The second rider was a younger man, a youth whose age Myrddin guessed was not many years either side of his own. He rode erect and he, too, was well armed and dressed. He kept glancing towards his companion and concern showed in his body language as now and then he leant towards the elderly man, touching him as if in reassurance. Myrddin presumed that the elderly man must be ailing.

Neither of the two riders glanced up the knoll and so did not perceive Myrddin sitting astride his horse there. Myrddin mentally criticized their sense of awareness for he could easily have been an enemy, waiting to ambush them.

Myrddin was about to call out a greeting when his ears detected a sound; his training caused his senses to tense. There was danger somewhere in the woods. He had scarce drawn the conclusion when, out of the woods, sprang four horsemen. Four armed warriors who, with yells and cries of triumph, rode down on the elderly man and his young companion, waving their swords.

Myrddin could not fault the reaction of the pair. The elderly man, as old and frail as he was, had his sword out and spurred forward to meet the first blows that fell from the leading assailant. A split second later his young companion had joined the fray. The scene that had been so peaceful a moment before was now a mêlée of men intent on bloodshed, horses stamping and whinnying, blades clashing on blades, accompanied by the hoarse shouting and cries of the combatants.

Myrddin sat astonished at the sudden change of the peaceful scene.

The newcomers, four warriors, were strangely dressed. Two of them wore great bushy flaxen-coloured beards and conical metal helmets. Their shields carried alien designs to those carried by the Britons. The two others were more richly dressed. One seemed younger than the other. The other, a dark, swarthy figure. Myrddin suddenly realized that he was seeing, for the first time, the feared Saxon warriors. He had heard stories of their fierceness, their invincibility. He examined them with new interest and found that they seemed to be only men and not mighty, indomitable beings.

Years ago, so the story went, scarcely two generations before, the High King Vortigern had invited the ancestors of these Saxons into the Isle of the Mighty to serve him as paid soldiers. They had mutinied and attempted to seize the kingdom for themselves. Thus had begun a war between them and the Britons. Soon more of these Saxons, in bands of thousands, were landing along the eastern and southern coasts of Britain and pushing the Britons slowly westward.

Eventually, Vortigern, to save his own power, made a treaty with them, marrying his daughter to one of their leaders, to the disgust of his people. Constans, a rival claimant to the High Kingship of Britain, rallied the opposition to Vortigern so that the Britons could unite and drive out the invaders. Vortigern had Constans murdered. But Constans had two sons, Emrys and Uther who, being children, were smuggled to Armorica in Gaul, where they had grown to manhood. They had returned to overthrow the elderly Vortigern. Then they led a renewed war against the Saxon kingdoms. But the Saxons, having gained their hold on the eastern seaboard of Britain, would not be shaken loose and as Emrys had grown older, the slow, inexorable tide of the Saxons resumed its westward flow. Now almost a quarter of the Isle of the Mighty was settled by them and the Britons driven westward.

Briton and Saxon were now enemies of blood.

It was with these thoughts, therefore, that Myrddin, seeing the four Saxons attacking the two Britons, unsheathed his own sword and, giving a wild yell, rode down the hill to the swirling battle. He rode forward at full pelt, scattering the scrimmage. With surprise on his side, he was able to disarm one of the Saxons with a swift sword blow which sent the weapon flying from the man’s hand.

He turned swiftly to fend off the attack of another warrior who was the first to recover from his surprise and hastened to defend the man who had been disarmed. The younger Briton was also pressing the attack on another of the assailants but, to Myrddin’s dismay, he saw that the elderly man had been wounded. He was slumped forward in his saddle with blood staining his cloak. His sword had already fallen from his nerveless hand. Myrddin perceived this in no more than a split second before he closed up with his opponent and metal rang against metal.

There came a scream from another Saxon and Myrddin saw that the young Briton had struck the man’s sword arm, almost severing it. The scream distracted his own opponent allowing Myrddin to knock aside the man’s weapon and plunge his own fully into the undefended stomach.

One of the two remaining Saxons gave a cry of rage and would have renewed the attack. He was a young man, not much older than Myrddin himself. He had been the warrior whom Myrddin had been able to disarm but he had now retrieved his sword. However, his companion, a hawkfaced warrior of more mature years, yelled at him.

“Back, my lord, Cynric! Back for your life! We cannot succeed here.”

Then the two were fleeing back into the cover of the forest. The third man, with the wounded arm, was left to escape after them as best he could.

Without a word, the young Briton had leapt from his horse and helped the elderly man from his mount, laying him gently on the ground.

Myrddin waited a moment, watching intently, in case the attackers regrouped and came back. Only when he was sure that the signs of danger were no longer there did Myrddin sheathe his sword and slide from his horse.

“Is the old man hurt bad?” he demanded. “I have some knowledge of healing.”

The young man glanced up at Myrddin.

Myrddin took an immediate liking to him. He was lithe in form but muscular. His features were even, the blue eyes wide and without guile and the hair was golden under his war helmet. His face, though anxiety was creasing it now, seemed more accustomed to smiling than to anger. Handsome was a word that seemed inadequate. Almost immediately, Myrddin felt a quiet charisma emanating from the natural command of the youth.

“He is hurt badly,” the youth replied. “See for yourself.”

Myrddin bent to one knee and examined the old man’s wound.

The old man stirred and gazed up at Myrddin with deepset, dark eyes. His features were strangely serene.

“I am dying,” he whispered.

Myrddin attempted a smile of reassurance.

“You still live.”

“Do not be an optimist, Druid,” replied the old man with a wan smile.

Myrddin allowed an eyebrow to rise in momentary surprise.

“How do you know who I am?”

The old man sniffed.

“Am I so senile that I do not recognize a ‘man of oak wisdom’? Come, I am dying. I was dying before the Saxon steel bit into my shoulder.”

“You cannot die, my lord!” It was an agonized cry from the younger man.

“Everyone has to die, Artio. That is the only thing we can be sure of in this world. Lowly servant and high-born noble, it all comes to the same thing in the end.”

Myrddin made a quick examination while the old man spoke.

“Well, young Druid?” demanded the old one. “Will I have until sundown?”

Myrddin grimaced. The old man expected honesty.

“No longer than that,” he admitted reluctantly.

The old man sighed.

“Then help Artio here secure me on my horse for I wish to die in my own fortress of Dinas Emrys this night.”

“Dinas Emrys?” Myrddin frowned, wondering why the name seemed so familiar.

The old man grinned wryly.

“This night shall pass the soul of Emrys, High King of the Isle of the Mighty …”

He groaned a little in pain.

“Is there nothing you can do?” demanded the young man who had been addressed as Artio.

Myrddin shook his head, trying to quell his astonishment at the identity of the old man. He had known about Emrys but had always pictured him as a strong, young warrior, not allowing for the passage of the years.

“If he was not so old, if the wound were an inch to the right … he will not see sunrise, of that I am sure.”

Artio suppressed a sob.

“Then help me secure him to his horse. I will take him back to Dinas Emrys to die.”

In silence, Myrddin helped the young man lift the elderly High King on to his horse. By use of leather thongs they secured him so that he would not fall and Myrddin picked up his sword and replaced it in its scabbard. He stood silently as Artio swung into his own saddle.

“Where are you going?” Artio demanded.

“To the east,” Myrddin pointed.

“That way lies Saxons,” frowned the youth. “Did you hear the name that passed the lips of one of our attackers?”

Myrddin, who had learnt many languages from the lips of his tutor, Fychan, nodded, for he understood well the Saxon tongue.

“The man called the youth Cynric.”

“And Cynric is newly anointed king of the West Saxons. There must be a strong raiding party nearby. I would have a care and avoid going further east.”

“But that way lies my destiny,” replied Myrddin, undeterred.

The young man, called Artio, frowned and gazed closely at him.

“Is it true what my lord said – are you of the old faith, a ‘man of oak wisdom’?”

Myrddin bowed his head.

“I am a Druid,” he admitted with pride, quite forgetting the Venerable Fychan’s counsel.

“Then tell no one of what has passed on this road, Druid. We were already on our journey to Dinas Emrys to meet the princes and chieftains of the Isle of the Mighty so that Emrys, who felt himself too feeble to continue to hold office, could appoint his successor as High King. Unless he can do so before his death, I fear that anarchy and despair will stalk this land.”

“No one shall hear of his passing from my lips,” Myrddin vowed.

The young warrior gazed at the young Druid for a moment or two. Then he smiled and reached forth his hand.

“I thank you for your assistance. Say a prayer to your gods, Druid,” he said. “For this night at the fortress of Emrys the soul of the last High King of the Isle of the Mighty will pass on into the Otherworld. Who then will protect us against the Saxons?”

“Another will come,” replied Myrddin.

But the two riders were already moving away with the young warrior leading the old man’s mount by the reins. They moved north-westward towards the distant mountains.

“Another will come,” Myrddin said again firmly, though half to himself, as he mounted his own horse. “The Venerable Fychan has said so.” He paused a moment to look after the disappearing pair of riders. Then he turned his horse and nudged it gently along the eastward trail.

V

The moon was rising to its zenith.

Myrddin threw a few more sticks onto the fire which he had set to warm him for the night was chilly. He stretched languidly before it and yawned deeply. It had been a long and tiring day. In the distance, he heard wolves baying at the moon. They did not trouble him. He knew enough of the behaviour of wolves to know that they would ignore him unless he annoyed them. They were hunting in a pack and looking for bigger game such as the deer herd he had passed in a forest clearing shortly before dusk.

He had tethered his horse nearby and unrolled his blanket and cloak before the fire. Now he lay at his ease, hands clasped behind his head, staring through the swaying branches of the canopy of the trees, beyond to the dark blue sky, the white smudged face of the round moon with the myriad of twinkling silver stars around it. A new moon. The start of new beginnings.

He was about to close his eyes when something attracted his attention. He frowned and sat up. Through the trees he caught sight of a luminescent glow, a light which seemed to pulsate, flickering between the trees.

Myrddin was curious. What manner of phenomenon was this? It was not another camp fire nor was it the light from a lantern. He had never seen such a light before.

He rose to his feet and made sure his sword was in his hand. Then he glanced at his horse which stood unperturbed and at ease. Myrddin was reassured by this for if there were danger threatening from nearby then his horse would be showing signs of distress and skittishness.

Inquisitively, Myrddin walked slowly towards the pulsating glow, moving quietly between the trees and skirting the undergrowth so that it might not rustle and give warning of his approach.

The forest ended abruptly after a hundred yards or so, at the base of a sudden outcrop of rocks which constituted a small cliff face. It was a precipitous thrust of granite breaking aside the surrounding trees of the forest and creating a small hill. Myrddin’s eyes grew rounded as he gazed up for there, some twenty feet or more above his head, came the pulsating light. It seemed to shine out of a small aperture, an opening in the rock.

Sheathing his sword, Myrddin moved to the rock face. He did not question the fact that it was dark and even with the bright, new moon, hanging low in the sky, he could hardly see any prospective foothold. Some instinct, perhaps the training of his senses – for a Druid was taught to use his senses just as much as his reason – caused him to run his hands over the dark granite and then launch himself upwards.

It took him a while, with one or two false moves which grazed his shins and arms. Myrddin found himself heaving his body over the edge of the rock and into the aperture. It was tall and narrow, just big enough to take a moderately sized man. Myrddin found himself grinning in reflection; in no way would Mawr the giant warrior have been able to pass through it.

Myrddin moved forward towards the pulsing light which began to respond more rapidly until it pulsed in time to his very heartbeat, its light growing stronger, brighter with each footstep he took towards its source.

He could not count how long it took him to move along that small confining passage for time seemed immeasurable. Then he stood in a great cave, but so strong was the pulsing light that he had to close his eyes to prevent himself from being blinded.

“Name yourself, stranger!”

The voice was a thin, reedy wail.

Myrddin tried to locate its owner but the light was too strong.

“I am Myrddin, foster son of Fychan,” he replied.

“The Venerable Fychan?” demanded the voice.

“The same.”

“Then answer three questions, Myrddin, and then you may enter here. What is the depth of a river?”

Myrddin frowned.

“The depth of a river?” he echoed stupidly.

“Yes, yes, yes!” The voice was annoyed. “Can a foster son of the Venerable Fychan be so stupid?”

Myrddin suddenly realized what was expected of him and he suppressed a smile, for he was well practised in such riddles.

“The distance from its surface to the river bed.”

“What trees are there in this forest?”

“Two kinds; the green and the withered.”

“What is sharper than the point of the sword you carry?”

“Understanding.”

Suddenly the light dimmed and Myrddin blinked rapidly. He was in a large cave, and in the middle of this cave was a huge granite slab whose surface was encrusted with curious stones of milky-white substance that glowed with a soft light. Myrddin realized that these stones must have been the source of the strong, pulsating light for even now they still pulsed and glowed.

Yet it was the object which stuck out of the top of the granite block which caused him to stare in surprise. It was the hilt of a sword. The hilt was attached to a blade which seemed to be buried in the granite block. The hilt itself was encrusted with precious metals and stones.

Myrddin swallowed hard.

“What manner of place is this?”

The voice cackled with laughter.

Myrddin became aware of a figure seated on a chair which was placed on a dais just behind the granite block. The figure was clothed in a white robe, with a silver half-moon necklet of the Druidic brotherhood hanging around his shoulders, stretching down to his chest. The man was old, the face so lined and creased that it was not possible to say how old; it might have been centuries which witnessed the furrowing of such lines. The hair was long and as white as snow.

“You seem startled, Myrddin.”

“I am … puzzled.”

The cackle of laughter came again.

“Then let me give you knowledge. You are in the Cave of the Sword. For centuries, no, for eons, this sword has awaited a rightful claimant. It was shaped by Gofannon, the smith-god, and brought to this land by the mighty Lleu Llaw Gyffes from the mystical city of Gorias, where the ancient gods and goddesses once dwelt. The sword is named Caladfwlch, which means the hard dinter, the sword of gods and heroes. Centuries ago Lleu plunged that sword into the living molten rock when this world was forming and decreed that only a great hero could pluck it forth in the cause of truth and justice for his people.”

“What has this to do with me?” demanded Myrddin, feeling some awe in spite of himself as he gazed upon the great slab of granite.

“Easy to say; when it felt your presence the jewel-encrusted granite began to pulse with light and send out its emissions to attract you to this spot.”

“Why? Am I to be such a hero? Is the sword mine to have?”

The old man gave a wheezy laugh and shook his head.

“That is not your destiny, Myrddin.”

“What then?”

“You will set the path for the hero to come. That is your destiny, son of the divine waters. You have gazed on this magical sword, Caladfwlch, you know its purpose. The hero is coming soon. He is the bear that will come out of the west to save his people at their time of greatest peril. He must pluck the sword from this stone and by its possession he will become invincible.”

“I do not understand this, old man. Our people have stood in as great a peril before this day. Why did Lleu Llaw Gyffes not bestow this gift on the heroes of the past, on the great Vercingetorix, on Cassivelaunos, on Caradog, or Bouddica or on Emrys? All were mighty heroes at a time of great peril for our people.”

“It was not their time. It was not their destiny. Go now, son of the divine waters, you have learnt what you must learn. That is enough. But tell the bear, whom you must bring here, that once he plucks the sword, it will serve him and bring him strength only while there is sincerity in his heart and goodness towards those of his kin. Once jealousy, desire or hate, the progenitors of injustice, enter his heart then the sword will no longer serve him. What the gods can bestow they can also take away.”

Myrddin shook his head in bewilderment. He was about to question the old man further when he realized, to his astonishment, that the old man had vanished. Gone also were the dais and the seat on which the old man had sat; gone as if they had all been some illusion, a phantasm from the past.

Yet the sword and the stone were still there. That was no illusion.

Myrddin walked slowly around it, examining the softly glowing milky-white stones set in the sides of the granite block.

Then the temptation came on him, an inquisitive desire which he could not refuse. He stepped swiftly to the block and seized the handle and tugged. The sword was set fast in the granite. He tugged again. Then, as he was about to tug a third time, a terrible pain seized his hands and arms. There came a blinding flash and Myrddin found himself being thrown backwards across the cave.

“Do you doubt my word, Myrddin?” came a hollow voice. “You are only the conduit for he that follows. Now leave this place and do not tempt the anger of the gods again.”

Rubbing his hands and arms to restore some circulation, for they were quite numb, Myrddin reluctantly retreated from the cave. By the time he had traversed the narrow defile of a passage back to the entrance onto the cliff face, he was feeling strong enough to attempt the climb down again. His mind was a-tumble with thoughts but he finally exerted his Druidic training to still them.

He had been told all that he should know at this time. Only when the time came would he know more. Only when the time came would he recognize the one for whom this sacred artifact was destined.

When he awoke by his dying, smoky fire, in the early morning light, the episode seemed like some curious distant dream.

V

By the following afternoon, Myrddin had traversed the great expanse of forest which separated the foothills of the mountains of the west from the lowlying plains to the east. He had followed the Venerable Fychan’s suggestion, keeping to the eastward paths which would, he had been assured, lead him to a revelation of self and destiny. But Myrddin was growing irritable at the endless and boring journey. He was lonely and longed for the company of people, and even the excitement of the curious incident in the cave had waned. Myrddin now considered it a strange, hallucinatory dream. The young man even questioned the purpose of his journey, so bored with it had he become. He was, after all, a free man. Had he not passed the rigours of training and become a “man of oak wisdom”, as the Druids were euphemistically called? He could go anywhere and do anything. He no longer had to obey the solemn warnings of the Venerable Fychan.

He paused on the edge of a rolling plain of cultivated fields, with lips pursed, as he considered the position. Yes; he would return to more familiar territory, to the shores of the westward seas. It was futile moving eastward for there was naught but Saxons there.

Having made his decision, he glanced up at the sky and decided it lacked an hour or two to dusk and therefore it was better to make a camp on the edge of the forest than try to move on now. He was about to dismount when his eye caught a glimpse of a wisp of smoke rising in the distance. He stood in his stirrups and narrowed his eyes. Some way away, across the rolling cultivated fields, he saw signs of a habitation of sorts. Why trouble to build a camp when he could ask hospitality and perhaps sleep in a dry bed rather than on the floor of the forest? The thought made the youth cheerful again.

He urged his horse forward along a path that skirted the fields and came to a small copse beyond which granite buildings rose and from which a growing pillar of smoke ascended. Myrddin recognized the grey austerity of the building at once. It was a Christian abbey. Before it stood a high granite cross, a cross surrounded by a circle, marking the intermix of the new faith with the old, for the Druids held to the eternal circle of life and such was their symbol.

He rode up to the great wooden doors and, without dismounting, he tugged at a rope, sending the clamour of a bell echoing beyond the walls.

There was a pause. Then a small aperture in the door swung open, no bigger than that necessary to frame a pair of eyes which examined him curiously.

“What is it you seek, stranger?”

“Hospitality and shelter for this night,” replied Myrddin.

“Are you Briton or Saxon?”

Myrddin raised an eyebrow.

“Is it not the custom of our people, and therefore Christians, to offer hospitality to all?”

The person behind the door sniffed.

“You must be a stranger to these parts to think so, warrior. You are in the kingdom of Gereint of Dumnonia and Dumnonia is assailed by the warriors of Cynric of the West Saxons. Never a day goes by without news of some devastation on our borders. Though you be a stranger, however, you have the accent of a Briton.”

“I am from …” He hesitated as he remembered the Venerable Fychan had warned him not to reveal his ancient faith to any Christian. “From beyond the western mountains. I am not a Saxon, that I assure you.”

“Then you may freely enter and be welcome.”

The aperture slammed shut and a moment later the gate opened allowing him to nudge his horse forward into a courtyard. The gate slammed shut behind him as he swung off his horse. A stable-boy came to him and took the reins while Myrddin turned to the gatekeeper. She stood revealed as a middle-aged woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, and wearing a silver crucifix around her neck.

“What place is this, good sister?” Myrddin asked, remembering how one addressed those of the Christian orders.

“This is a house dedicated to the blessed Elen and is known as Llanelen, in Dumnonia. It was the blessed Elen who brought the True Faith to the people of these western lands. Come, I will take you to our Mother Abbess.”

Myrddin did not protest. Apart from some boys and a few men, who were performing such tasks as were unsuited for the hands of women, he could see no other men about the courtyard. There were, however, many religieuses in their robes. He deduced that the abbey was a Christian religious house for women only. He had heard of such places.

The female gatekeeper led the way through the towering building, along a cloister, to a door upon which she knocked. A voice bade her enter.

“A stranger has appeared asking for asylum, Mother,” announced his guide, standing in the doorway so that he could not peer into the room beyond.

“Briton or Saxon?” demanded a woman’s voice.

“Briton.”

“Bid him enter.”

Myrddin found himself in a small dark room lit by a burning brand torch. A woman was seated in a chair and beckoned him to approach.

“Who are you?”

“I am named Myrddin from behind the western mountains.”

“You are welcome to Llanelen. I am the Abbess Aldan. Do you seek refuge for the night?”

“I do.” Myrddin took a pace forward, so that he stood by the light of a torch.

He became aware of a soft intake of breath from the woman called Abbess Aldan. She leaned forward in her chair and seemed to be examining his features closely.

“Is there anything wrong?” he demanded.

The abbess seemed to catch herself and then shook her head.

“No. No.” Her voice was slightly breathless. “I thought … you reminded me of someone I knew long ago. No matter. Sister Rhinwedd here will show you to your room. We dine within the hour.”

When Myrddin left the Abbess Aldan he had the impression that she was in a state of some consternation but he could not fathom a reason why.

He was shown to a small room, a cubiculum, so Sister Rhinwedd called it, where he washed and took the dust and fatigue of travel from his person and his clothes. Then a distant bell started to chime and he reasoned it was the summons to the evening meal. Outside his cubiculum he merely followed the religieuses who were heading towards a single point which was surely the refectory room of the abbey.

Inside the room were two long wooden tables before which the sisters of Llanelen stood. At the far end of the room at a cross angle to the two long tables was another table at which the Abbess Aldan and a young girl were seated. Sister Rhinwedd came bustling forward and led him to this table.

“You are a guest,” she whispered, “and may be seated next to our abbess at her table.”

Yet it was not the abbess, nor her acolytes, who caught Myrddin’s attention as he made his way to the seat which Sister Rhinwedd indicated he should take. It was the young girl, perhaps a year or two younger than himself, who was seated on the other side of the Abbess Aldan. She was clearly not of the sisterhood but clad in clothes that denoted a woman of rank. Myrddin drew in his breath sharply.

The torchlight made her hair seem on fire. It glistened red and gold in the light and was braided into four plaits which hung behind her almost to waist level. Her face was fair, the cheek tinged red as if by the foxglove of the moor. The eyebrows were blackened and the eyes were deep pools of blue. Her tunic was of green silk, embroidered with a myriad of reds, golds and blues, while at her throat was a circlet of red gold. Her skirt was long and of deep blue and was again embroidered with many symbols in varied colours. She held her head high as one used to commanding and being obeyed.

As Myrddin took his place, she caught his gaze and returned it for a moment or so before the foxglove of her cheeks contrasted with the natural red of her blush and she lowered her eyes.

The Abbess Aldan uttered a Christian Gratias in the tongue of the Romans and motioned everyone to sit and commence their meal.

“What do you seek in this area of the world, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains?” the Abbess Aldan asked as they fell to eating. It was a meal of good meats and mead.

“What does any man seek,” countered Myrddin, “but his destiny?”

“And do you know your destiny, warrior?” the young girl intervened from the other side of the abbess.

Myrddin grinned at her.

“What makes you so sure that I am a warrior?” he countered.

The girl pouted.

“You do not have the look of a farmer or a fisherman. Your hands are too well tended to be an artisan, a smith, a cobbler or stone mason. And you are no member of the religious.”

Myrddin’s smile broadened.

“You are perceptive in your youth, lady. And since we fall to guessing games, you, I would say, are a chieftain’s daughter?”

The girl’s chin came up.

“I am, Gwen …”

“Lady!” interrupted the Abbess Aldan, her voice edged in warning.

“Mother Abbess,” replied the girl, her voice sounding bored, “I do not think we need fear harm from this young man. He is a Briton.”

“Even so. The Saxons have been reported close to and …”

As she hesitated, Myrddin laughed and finished her sentence.

“And Britons have been known to accept Saxon gold to betray their fellows before now? I can say that the Saxons are nothing to me, Abbess Aldan, excepting that I have crossed swords with them.”

“They should be enemies to the blood of all true Britons,” snapped the girl.

“As they are to you, lady?” inquired Myrddin with an indulgent smile.

“As they are to me,” confirmed the girl, her tone serious. “For they have killed my mother and father and my three brothers. They have dispersed my people who once dwelt on Ynys Wyth. These Saxon murderers now live in my island, live in the prosperity my people once enjoyed while we now starve and perish in the countryside. We should not rest until all the Saxons lay dead or are driven from this land.”

Abbess Aldan looked shocked.

“That is not in keeping with the teachings of Our Lord, Lady Gwendoloena.”

Myrddin caught the name. It meant nothing to him.

“Gwendoloena?” The abbess glanced at him but was clearly annoyed at herself for having betrayed the girl’s identity. “Well, Gwendoloena, you speak like a true Briton keeping faith with the spirit of our ancestors. It is not good to offer an aggressor the other cheek, he will merely seize the opportunity to do further injury. Better to punish him for his aggression so that he may be dissuaded from the assault.”

The Abbess Aldan looked outraged.

“I cannot have such heresy spoken of before my sisters, Myrddin.”

But the young girl was smiling.

“You know that he is right, Mother Abbess.” She glanced to Myrddin. “You are a warrior, are you not?”

Myrddin gave way to the temptation of pride before the admiring gaze of the young girl.

“I am not a warrior, although I am versed in arms. In deference to the Mother Abbess, I can only say that I follow a different path.”

Abbess Aldan closed her eyes, swayed a little and moaned softly.

The Lady Gwendoloena’s face grew astonished.

“Then you are a …?”

“Hush, daughter,” hissed the abbess. “We will talk of such things later.”

She glanced quickly round the room but the sisters did not seem to have overheard their conversation.

They resumed their meal in silence but during it Myrddin was aware of the blue eyes of the girl appraising him now and then and they were full of interest. As for his own feelings, he felt a strange attraction to the girl. Even though they had exchanged only a few words, Myrddin felt that he had known this girl before, perhaps in other lives, for it was the ancient belief that the souls of men and women lived countless existences; countless beyond time. There was this world and there was the Otherworld and when a soul passed from this world, it was reborn in the Otherworld. When it passed from the Otherworld, it was reborn in this world. Thus a constant exchange of souls took place time without ending.

Perhaps there was some compatibility, an inner spark, which brought down the reserves that most people erected when trying to communicate with each other. Whatever it was, Myrddin felt a closeness to the girl.

After the meal, and after the Abbess Aldan had uttered another Gratias and dispersed the gathering, she turned to Myrddin.

“Now, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains, I need an oath from you.”

“An oath?” he queried. “Why so?”

“You have learnt of the presence of the Lady Gwendoloena in this house. For that knowledge you might be well rewarded.”

“By Saxons,” intervened Gwendoloena, standing behind the abbess. “I do not think this young man would betray me to the Saxons.”

“Even so, a whisper in the wrong quarter …”

“You have my solemn oath, I would not say anything to harm you,” said Myrddin speaking directly to the young girl. “But why would the Saxons be seeking you? You say they have killed your family, dispossessed your people and driven you away from Ynys Wyth. What harm could you do them now?”

Gwendoloena pulled a face.

“The Saxon king, Cynric, desires me. I have hidden from him these last three months and now found sanctuary in the abbey of Llanelen. We have heard that Cynric leads a raiding party of his warriors in an attempt to find me and take me to his fortress. If they find me …”

She shrugged eloquently.

“Then you may count on me not only to keep my own counsel but to stand ready to protect you … always.”

The girl blushed but smiled happily at the vehemence in Myrddin’s voice.

A bell tolled in the distance.

“The hour grows late,” chided the Abbess Aldan. “It is past the hour for retiring. I trust, Myrddin, you will be continuing your journey tomorrow? It is not seemly that a … a pagan should seek sanctuary in the House of God.”

Myrddin smiled sadly.

“Is this God of yours so fastidious that he will turn those seeking hospitality away simply because they might not know nor acknowledge Him? Have no fear, though, Mother Abbess. Tomorrow, I shall depart.”

The night was spent in restlessness for Myrddin. His waking dreams were of the young girl, Gwendoloena. He began to regret promising the abbess that he would depart so soon. Was this to be his destiny? He realized that some powerful emotion stirred within him every time he thought of her. Was it love? If so, it was the love of a salmon for the river and not of a dog for the sheep. Of that he was sure. He wondered what excuse he could give to stay further in the abbey of Llanelen.

When he finally dropped off to sleep, in that curious hour which stands between the darkness of the night and the onset of dawn, when small birds here and there, pre-empting the coming of the light, began to call awkwardly from their nests, it was a sleep of tired exhaustion. Yet hardly had he descended into it than something jerked him awake.

He lay for a moment or so, listening and trying to sort out the mêlée of sounds that assaulted his ears.

A woman’s voice was screaming. He finally made out the words.

“Saxons! The Saxons are attacking!”

There came the sound of wood crashing against wood, of the crackle of flames, the clash of metal upon metal, the screams of women and the ferocious yelling of men.

Myrddin grabbed his sword and, without putting on his clothes, he dashed into the courtyard.

The gates of the abbey were smashed open and a dozen fierce-looking warriors had spilled in. Some of the boys and the male workers lay sprawled on the ground; the blood on their bodies and the positions in which they lay told Myrddin they were beyond earthly help. Here and there the body of a sister lay, struck down indiscriminately by Saxon swords.

A rage gripped Myrddin and he sprang forward.

The Saxons were mainly on horseback but a small group had dismounted and, even as he looked, two of them were dragging the struggling Gwendoloena out of one of the abbey doors towards the waiting horses.

As he moved towards them, a Saxon on horseback rode down on him, his blade swinging. Myrddin had to turn to defend himself. The Saxon was no novice and Myrddin was sweating as he parried and thrust to prevent the swinging metal cleaving his head. Skill was with him for he gave an upward thrust which caught the Saxon in his unarmoured side. The man grunted and fell back, toppling slowly from his horse.

Myrddin swung round to where the girl had been. The Saxons were all mounted now and, with the abbey in flames, and smoke billowing across the courtyard, he saw one man had thrown Gwendoloena across his saddle bow and was spurring away with his companions after him. They thundered through the broken gates as, with an inarticulate cry, Myrddin raced vainly after them.

Then, as the riders passed out, Myrddin skidded to a halt in shock. The last rider was the hawkfaced warrior who had been of the party who attacked Emrys and his young companion. But it was not that which caused Myrddin to stand still in astonishment. The Saxon was carrying a battle banner. The banner was fluttering in the morning breeze. On it, Myrddin beheld the curious embroidered elaborate knot. The very same knot which the Venerable Fychan had shown him on the blanket in which he had been found wrapped as a small babe; the symbol which marked his destiny, the only thing which might identify his origins.

He stood paralysed for a moment staring at the disappearing banner.

Then his world exploded into bright lights before he sank down into the dark black, bottomless pit.

VI

Myrddin blinked and tried to focus.

He was lying on his back on the ground. He could still hear the crackle of fire, the cries of people and see the billow of smoke around him. A face was peering anxiously down at his: a woman’s face, disfigured by a stream of blood across her forehead and cheek.

He blinked again and finally realized it was the Abbess Aldan.

He tried to raise himself and groaned as the pain shot through the back of his head.

“Lie still a moment, Myrddin,” instructed the abbess.

He obeyed, for it was too painful otherwise.

“What happened?” he asked foolishly.

“A Saxon raider smote you from behind. By Christ’s miracle, only the flat of his sword struck the back of your head and knocked you unconscious. Otherwise …” She shrugged. As she spoke she was bathing his face and his head with a cloth soaked in water.

“I remember. I saw the knot … my destiny.” He suddenly groaned again. “They took Gwendoloena!”

Abbess Aldan nodded slowly, looking at him with a curious expression.

“You saw the knot?” she asked curiously.

“A symbol on a Saxon battleflag. No matter. They took Gwendoloena. She is in danger.”

He tried to sit up and became aware again of the burning buildings and the bodies lying scattered around.

“You paid a heavy price for giving her sanctuary, Mother Abbess.”

“There is a price to everything,” agreed the abbess dispassionately. She helped him to a sitting position. “Have a care, now. Do you feel dizzy?”

“Somewhat. How did it happen?”

“The Saxons surprised us before dawn, smashed in the gates and killed all who opposed them. They obviously knew that Gwendoloena was here for that was their object, to kidnap her.”

“We must get her back.”

The abbess smiled thinly.

“We? A party of religieuses, shocked and some badly wounded? That we cannot. The abbey is on fire but we may yet save it if all the sisters work together to douse the flames.”

“But what of Gwendoloena?” demanded Myrddin, rubbing his head.

“They say that God moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps he sent you for that purpose. Go after her, my son, and find a way of releasing her from her Saxon captors. There is no one else who is able to do so.”

Myrddin gazed around him again and realized that the Abbess Aldan was right. Most of the male workers at the abbey had been slain, as well as several religieuses. The rest were either too shocked or needed to help put out the fires that threatened their monastery.

“Very well,” he said. “Did they leave me my horse?”

“They took only the girl.”

“How will I find them?”

“They are Cynric’s men, and Cynric is king of the West Saxons. He has his fortress to the east.”

Myrddin bent to pick up his fallen sword.

“Do you recognize that curious knot symbol, Mother Abbess? Is it the battle banner of Cynric?”

The Abbess Aldan shook her head.

“What makes you so curious about that symbol?” she demanded.

“It has much to do with my destiny. I must know its origins.”

“Return here with Gwendoloena, and I may find out its origin. But this I can tell you, it is older than Cynric of the West Saxons.”

Myrddin hesitated but a moment more. He would have pressed the abbess. He was sure that she was hiding further knowledge, but he knew every moment counted if he were to catch up with Gwendoloena and her captors. So he hastened back to his smoke-filled cubiculum to retrieve his clothes and dress before going to the stable. The stables had been gutted by fire but some of the community had managed to lead all the livestock from it, including his horse which was now tethered just beyond the walls of the abbey of Llanelen. It took him a moment or two to ready the beast and spring into the saddle.

The Abbess Aldan turned from directing her sisters in their slowly succeeding efforts to douse the fires and held up her hand towards him in the Christian blessing.

Myrddin raised a hand in a parting gesture and nudged his steed into an immediate gallop after the trail of the Saxon raiders in the direction of the southeast.

For a day and a night Myrddin had followed the trail left by the Saxon raiders. It was easy. Indeed, they had made no attempt to disguise their passage. Perhaps they were contemptuous of any pursuit for they cleaved their way through Dumnonia, leaving behind burning homesteads, slaughtered farmers and raped women. Myrddin felt a growing hatred for the race. His fears were for the person of Gwendoloena and he took comfort in the rationalization that they would not harm her if the West Saxon king, Cynric, desired her and led his warriors to take her as captive to his fortress. He would undoubtedly ensure that the girl would not be harmed.

It was not until the morning of the second day that Myrddin began to set his mind to wondering what he would do when he caught up with the raiding party. After all, he was but one against many. Perhaps he had been a fool to rush headlong into danger without a thought as to how he would rescue Gwendoloena or extract himself from the situation. Rather, he should have gathered a group of warriors to accompany him. Again he had been tempted by vanity.

The thoughts began to nag at his mind especially now that he had clearly passed from the territory of the Britons, which was the kingdom of Dumnonia, into the lands of the West Saxons. Of course, no boundaries marked the border over which Briton and Saxon had battled for two generations. One year the border would be in one place, another it would be elsewhere depending on the waxing or waning of the fortunes of either side.

What clearly marked his advent into the Saxon kingdom was the sign of the crude Saxon habitations and farmsteads, so unlike the British farms and palatial villas, villas that were the bequest of three centuries of Roman influence.

In older times, Myrddin reflected, this area had once been the kingdom of the Durotriges, “kings of strength” as their name boasted, one of the wealthiest of the tribes of the Isle of the Mighty. They had gone now, disappearing firstly under the might of the conquering Vespasian’s II Augusta Legion, then under the assimilating processes of Roman administration, and lastly under the invasion of the West Saxons under Cynric’s father, Cerdic. Cerdic was dead and now young Cynric ruled this land.

The sound of a bowstring inadverently loosed before its drawer was ready caused Myrddin to start, and he clasped a hand to his sword.

It was too late.

Fool that he was, he had been so occupied with his own thoughts that he had neglected to keep a careful scrutiny of his surroundings.

Four horsemen surrounded him. Two of them had bows drawn with arrows pointing unerringly at his heart. A third, the man who had loosed the bowstring inadvertently, was now swiftly stringing another arrow with a flustered look on his grim features. The fourth man, obviously their leader, sat astride his horse in front of Myrddin, a grin on his features, a sword held loosely in his hand. Myrddin recognized him at once. He was the hawkfaced man who had taken part in the raid into Dumnonian territory. The man who had carried the banner bearing the emblem of the knot.

VII

“So what have we here? A welisc, by Thunor!”

It was clear that the man did not recognize him at all.

Myrddin found the man’s Saxon language was easy to follow. Mentally he thanked the Venerable Fychan for having made him study several languages of which Saxon had been one. Myrddin knew that the word welisc was a derogatory term by which the Saxons named all Britons as “foreigners” in their own land.

A swift glance showed Myrddin that he had no immediate means of escape. He sat in a frozen posture, unmoving, lest the arrows fly from their bows.

“Who are you, welisc? Do you understand me?” the hawkfaced man was demanding.

“I understand well enough,” replied Myrddin, indifferently.

“Then hear me. I am Centwine, thane to Cynric, king of the West Saxons. Who are you who has the appearance of a warrior of the welisc?”

“No warrior,” replied Myrddin, thinking that some honesty might stand him in better stead with his foes. “I am a shaman of my people.”

Centwine’s eyebrows shot up.

“A wise man in one so young? Come, I’ll not believe it. Besides, the religion of the Britons, who are followers of Christ, has no shamans.”

“I believe in the old gods of my people, Centwine, thane to Cynric,” Myrddin explained.

The Saxon thane examined him cynically.

“Yet you bear the look of a young warrior. What are you doing in the land of the West Saxons?”

“Looking for someone.”

“And that someone is …?”

“A fellow Briton.”

“No Briton lives here unless they be slaves. I believe you not. You are a spy, warrior, come to plot an invasion of our territory.”

“That is not so.”

“And you would swear by your god, Christ?” sneered the Saxon.

“No, for one must believe in Christ before one can take an oath on his name. I have told you that I do not. I believe in the old gods of my people. I will swear by them.”

Centwine chuckled sourly.

“By Thunor’s stroke, now here is a unique excuse for not swearing an oath. You are honey-tongued, welisc. I shall discover the truth of this matter in my tun.”

He moved forward, keeping out of the line of fire from his bowmen, and removed Myrddin’s weapons. Then he signalled his men to close in and turned to lead the way along the path.

Myrddin cursed himself many times during that short ride for his inattention. He was escorted a few miles before a grim wooden stockade became visible. The construction housed a small village and this was called a tun or fortress by the Saxons. Myrddin saw that it was well defended and at its portals stood gruesome war banners, one bearing a human skull transfixed to a pole beneath which bull’s horns stood out with pieces of gaudy coloured clothes. Myrddin looked in vain for a glimpse of the banner carrying the emblem of the knot.

Once inside, he was beset by a group of rough Saxon men who dragged him from his horse, spat, punched and kicked at him before dragging him inside one of the buildings. It was a great hall in which many were gathered around feasting-tables. At one end, large roasts of oxen and sheep were being turned on spits. Men and women with iron collars around their necks hurried to and fro, mostly to keep the vessels, which each man seemed to hold, refilled from large jugs.

Centwine followed his men, grinning sourly, as Myrddin was dragged into the centre of the hall.

The seated warriors stopped their wassail and thumped the table top with the drinking horns, crying out the name of their chief.

Centwine walked to his captive and held up his hand to command silence in the hall.

“We have an extra guest. A welisc. He is going to tell us what he is doing in this land of ours.”

“I told you truly,” replied Myrddin, struggling in the hands of the Saxon warriors.

“Then we must question this welisc warrior more closely. Acca, the task falls to you to prise information from our friend.”

Myrddin saw a burly, evil-looking man rise from his seat and come forward.

Willing hands tore the clothes from his body and leather thongs strapped him to a wooden pole which seemed to be one of the roof supports.

Centwine’s features were suddenly before him.

“You have a chance to speak freely, welisc. Is it Gereint of Dumnonia who sends you to spy in this kingdom?”

There came the sound of a horn being blown from outside the hall.

Centwine glanced up in annoyance as a warrior ran in and called loudly to the assembly.

“My lord, it is the king. Cynric is coming.”

A few moments passed before a group of men entered. At their head was the youthful Saxon who had been with Centwine in the attack on Emrys. He stood without helmet and Myrddin’s eyes widened a little.

Myrddin found himself staring into the face of a youth scarce any older than himself. And, curiously, there was something in the youth’s face that seemed familiar to him. It was not simply recognition from the day of the attack on Emrys. He was sure he had never seen Cynric before that day. But then why did he seem so acquainted with Cynric’s features?

The king of the West Saxons glanced indifferently at Myrddin and then turned to Centwine.

“What sport is this, kinsman?”

“A Briton, my lord. A spy of Gereint, no doubt.”

“No one sends me to spy. I am a wandering shaman,” protested Myrddin.

“If so, let us hope that you are a good shaman for you will need to save yourself,” Centwine sneered. Then he turned to Cynric. “With your permission, my lord, we were about to question the dog to learn his purpose here.”

The Saxon king dropped languidly into a chair and waved a hand.

“Do not let me stop this sport,” he said. “I came here merely to rest my horse and take refreshment before returning to my fortress.” For the first time his eyes met Myrddin’s. A slight look of bewilderment entered his gaze. Myrddin wondered whether the Saxon felt the same recognition that Myrddin had felt for him? Myrddin bit his lip trying to dredge his memories. Yet it was clear that, like Centwine, Cynric did not recognize him from the previous encounter.

“Acca,” Centwine was saying, “the ritual by burning iron.”

Myrddin turned his mind from the problem of Cynric as he saw Acca walk to the fire. Someone had already placed a branding iron in its hungry flames. He went cold as he realized what was coming. He tried to clear his mind of all thoughts and began to chant softly beneath his breath in an effort to invoke the process of meditation. He had often done it during his long years of training but it took time to reach the highest point of the meditative process called the act of peace.

He was aware of his surroundings but somehow they were no longer part of him.

He was aware of the evil, grinning face of the churl called Acca, approaching with the hot branding iron, but he felt none of its heat. He was aware of the branding iron moving towards his chest.

“Speak, welisc, and your pain may yet be avoided. Who sent you to spy here?”

“I am no spy!” Myrddin replied tightly.

He was aware of the branding iron touching his flesh, yet it was cold upon his skin. There came the sound of sizzling to his ears and the faint smell of roasting pork. He felt no other sensation than coldness.

The grins and cheers of the assembly suddenly died away as Myrddin still stood, eyes wide, simply chanting softly under his breath.

Centwine came forward, glancing at the seared and mangled flesh, and then at Myrddin. His expression was filled with sudden awe.

“By Woden’s light! The man must be a shaman, how else can he stand the pain of such a wound?”

Still chanting in his mind, Myrddin gazed beyond Centwine to where Cynric sat, leaning forward in his chair to share his thane’s wonder at Myrddin’s reaction to the branding iron.

“By the dark and viewless powers, whom the storms and seas obey, I will curse your people to extinction, Cynric, king of the West Saxons, unless you release me now. I have spoken truly and you did not believe. Take this as a token of my power.”

He lowered his head and beads of sweat stood out from his brow as his mind probed towards his horse which was being held outside the building. It was an old Druidic discipline, the sending of one’s thoughts into the mind of a susceptible subject. Myrddin’s horse reared up, striking out with his forelegs, catching the man who had been holding its reins a powerful kick on the side of the head. Then, released, the beast burst into the hall, crashing through the wicker gate, and rearing up in the confined space.

The Saxons yelled in fright as the beast approached and they hurried to the sides of the hall, away from the threatening animal. Only Cynric continued to sit in his chair without concern. Centwine backed behind Myrddin for protection.

One Saxon warrior, bolder than the rest, ran forward to catch its reins, but the beast reared again, knocking the man back across the hall with a blow of its powerful hooves.

Then the horse trotted docilely up to Myrddin and stood snorting and pawing at the ground before him.

Myrddin relaxed a moment from his efforts and heaved a sigh.

“Release me and let me depart, Saxons, and no further harm shall come to you. Keep me or try to kill me and you shall be cursed even to the seventh generation.”

Centwine was white-faced now. He turned to Cynric. The young king rose slowly to his feet.

Even Acca, ashamed of having left his king and thane undefended, returned to stand trembling a little before them.

“Best do as he says, my lords. He must be a powerful wizard to withstand the pain of the iron,” he urged.

Cynric’s lips compressed tightly a moment and then he said: “For one so young, you appear a powerful enemy to have, welisc. What is your name?”

“Mark well my name, Cynric; it is Myrddin from beyond the western mountains.”

“I shall remember it. Cut him free, Centwine. He may depart this tun in peace.”

The Saxon thane suddenly leant forward and cut the thongs with a knife.

Myrddin staggered forward a little but quickly regained his balance.

“You may leave here in safety,” Cynric told him. “But if you are found still within my kingdom at sunset then my warriors shall slaughter you, as they would a wild dog, and they will slaughter you on sight.”

Myrddin walked in as dignified manner as he could summon to his horse and, slowly hauling himself painfully into the saddle, he turned and rode out of the hall, through the sullen yet quiet throng outside and out of the gates. Then he put his heels against the beast and sent it into a furious gallop.

Only when he had gone several miles did he draw rein and halt. The pain was beginning to prick at his mind in spite of his meditation. The branding iron had left a wound which would have caused the death by shock of the pain to many another.

He looked around and saw a small stream nearby. Edging his horse near it, he almost tumbled off and threw his aching body in its cold, bubbling waters. Then exhaustion overcame his mind control. The pain hit him like the points of several knives all at once. In his mind he thought he screamed out loud. In reality, a low moan came from his lips and he blacked out.

VIII

Myrddin awoke in darkness.

He was lying in a bed between cool sheets of linen, his head resting on a feather pillow. While the wound on his chest burned and irritated, it was not painful. Someone had dressed it with oils or lotions and placed strips of linen over it. His mind felt strangely peaceful, relaxed and untroubled.

He frowned but could derive no memory to suggest how he had come to this place, whatever place it was.

He was in a large room. Outside he realized that it was night for he could see the twinkle of stars in the sky. Wolves howled in the distance. In the gloom he realized that he was in a well-built house of the type the Romans had once built in Britain. There were frescoes on the wall and pillars supporting the high ceiling while, beyond the windows, he could hear a fountain playing. That part of the floor which he could discern was carpeted in mosaic.

He tried again to dredge up some memory, some explanation of what had happened.

His mind was sluggish.

He thought that he must have been drugged.

The door opened abruptly and a shadowy figure passed into the room and came to stand at his bedside.

“Who are you? Where am I?” were the questions that sprang to his lips. Slow, hesitant questions.

The answer came back in Saxon from a woman’s voice.

“Do not be afraid, Myrddin. You are quite safe here.”

Myrddin frowned.

“Who are you?” he demanded again, this time in Saxon.

“My name is Lowri. I am sister to Centwine, the thane of Cynric.”

Myrddin groaned as the implication registered in his mind.

“Am I Centwine’s prisoner again?”

“No. You are no one’s prisoner. I followed you from Centwine’s tun and found you drowning in the waters of a stream. I pulled you out and brought you here.”

“Where is here?”

“This is my palace. I am told that it was built long ago by the Romans. Here I live. We are many miles from Centwine’s tun. You are safe from recapture for the time being.”

“Why?”

“I do not understand.”

“Why have you helped me? You are Centwine’s sister and a Saxon.”

“Shall we say it is because I admire a brave man.”

Myrddin shook his head. “I still do not understand,” he said.

The woman moved closer and lit a torch.

“Have no fear, Myrddin, for I am a healer among my people. You have nothing to be alarmed about.”

“You dressed my wound?” he asked.

“It will heal soon, but it will leave a scar.”

Myrddin gazed up, still bewildered.

Although the light from the flickering brand torch was not good, he could see that the woman, Lowri, was handsome. More voluptuous than pretty. Her features were heavier than Gwendoloena’s. He found the comparison came naturally. The features had a slight grossness that was more sensual. Lascivious was the word that eventually came to mind. Her features were dark and rounded, the lips pouting enticingly. Her figure was full but not unattractive.

She smiled down at him and her hands removed the strips of linen on his chest.

“Ah,” she nodded approvingly. “The wound is healing well. I will anoint it with more balm to quicken the process.”

“You have also given me some compound to sedate my mind, haven’t you?”

Lowri looked quickly at him.

“You are, indeed, a wise man. You were in need of tranquillity of the mind to bear the pain of the wound. I shall give you nothing more if you do not wish the sedation. But balm you must have to heal your wound.”

Myrddin felt no anxiety.

“Do what you can, healer, for I can do nothing until I am healed.”

Lowri nodded, then bent to her task, pouring a cooling balm over his chest. She poured a drink from a flagon and left it by his bedside.

“You may take this if the irritation grows strong in the night. It is up to you. By dawn the pain of the wound may bring a fever. I shall be here and help you. But, if my prediction holds true, you will be quite well by dusk tomorrow.”

“I still do not know why you are doing this,” Myrddin said. “Especially if Centwine is your brother.”

Lowri shook her head.

“We may talk about that when you are better. Now try to rest. By dawn the fever will come.”

Lowri was right.

Myrddin awoke from his sleep, or, at least, he thought he had. One part of his mind told him he was in a hot, sweating fever, yet shivering in bed. Another part awoke him in a dark cavern and as he moved towards its interior he saw Gwendoloena smiling at him, imploring him to come to her arms. Yet when he did so, he saw that her head was attached to a long scaly neck, the neck of a huge reptilian dragon. A sword was in his hand and, crying in terror, he hacked and hewed at the beast, while all the time, the head of Gwendoloena implored him to help her.

He started from the bed screaming, one hand stretched out before him as if to fend off danger.

Firm hands on his shoulders pressed him back to the pillows.

“Quiet now! You have been dreaming.”

He stared about him and then focused on the face of Lowri.

He saw that there was a twilight outside the room. He was still lying in a sweat-sodden bed, hot and sticky from the hours of his fever.

“I thirst,” were his first words.

The woman Lowri reached forward and brought a cup to his lips. It was water, ice cold and refreshing. She allowed him only a few swallows.

“It is not good to drink so much at once,” she reproved, reaching out to dab at his perspiration-coated brow with a cooling cloth.

Myrddin heaved a deep sigh.

“The fever came as you said it would.”

Lowri grinned.

“And the wound has begun to heal without infection, as I said. Tomorrow, after a night’s sleep, you will be able to get up and walk about.”

“Then I shall need to know why you have helped me,” he murmured, allowing himself to fall back into the bed. A deep natural sleep overcame him even as she replied.

“You will know … tomorrow.”

In the bright, morning light, he felt refreshed, strong, and his mind was clear and sharp. A slave came with water for him to wash while another brought him food and drink to break his fast. He indulged freely and then a third slave arrived with fresh clothes to replace the ones that had been torn off his back at Centwine’s tun. He dressed and they fitted him well.

His chest, though he was conscious of the healing wound, did not trouble him at all.

This Lowri was a good healer, he admitted.

The door opened and another slave, or perhaps it was the same one, bowed low:

“My lady requests your attendance if you are ready, my lord.”

Myrddin sniffed, for he disapproved of such subservience. He had heard of the Saxon institution of slaves and knew that those who wore iron collars on their neck had no freedom at all among the Saxons but could be bought and sold at the whim of their owners.

“Lead me to her, man.”

The slave bowed obsequiously.

Myrddin was astonished by the affluence and beauty of the villa as he was led from the chamber across an elegant courtyard, with a marble fountain, into a set of more private chambers and out into a small sun-filled but secluded courtyard.

Stretched on a couch was the woman, Lowri.

She gazed up languidly and smiled.

“You are better, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains.”

Myrddin returned her smile and inclined his head.

“Thanks to you, Lowri of the West Saxons.”

She waved her hand for him to be seated on the couch next to her.

“You put fear into my brother’s heart,” she chided, as he obeyed. “You are young to be so well trained as a shaman.”

“I studied under the adepts since I was a baby. It is not by age that one is judged but by knowledge.”

“Truly spoken. Nevertheless, my brother was fearful. Be warned that out of fear is born hate and it is my suspicion that the next time you meet he will kill you.”

“Will there be a next time?”

Lowri pouted and looked uncomfortable.

“If you are wise, Myrddin, as wise as you have shown yourself knowledgeable and unafraid, you will avoid Centwine.”

“I have little intention to renew our relationship,” grinned Myrddin. “But it may be, if we do meet again, that it will be I who will kill him.”

Lowri leant forward a little and gestured to a jug of mead which a slave carried forward.

Myrddin shook his head.

“Mead is not for drinking this early in the morning for it causes men to lose their senses or sleep to overcome them. And there is much I should know.”

Lowri waved the slave to depart.

“There is much that I should know also, Myrddin,” replied the woman. “I risk my life to save you from drowning and healed your wound. Tell me, truly, are you Gereint of Dumnonia’s spy? Did you come into this land to spy for our enemy, Gereint?”

Myrddin shook his head.

“I know nothing of the king of Dumnonia. I came here for … for my own reasons.”

“Your own reasons?” She frowned.

“I spoke the truth to your brother, lady. I came seeking someone.”

“A Briton, you said.”

“Indeed. A Briton.”

Myrddin eased himself in his chair and, in shifting his position, he suddenly caught sight of a banner decorating the wall of a room, whose open doors led onto the courtyard. In surprise he sprang up.

“What is it?” demanded Lowri, alarmed.

Myrddin took a pace or two towards the room.

There was no mistaking it. It was the banner with the embroidered knot that he had last seen carried by Centwine as the raiders left Llanelen.

“What banner is that?” Myrddin demanded, reseating himself. “I think that it is familiar to me.”

Lowri followed his gaze and shrugged.

“As thane to Cynric, my brother, Centwine, often carries that battle banner. It was carried for Cerdic, Cynric’s father, years ago.”

“It is Cynric’s battle banner?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!” Myrddin breathed out slowly. He felt confusion. Questions tumbled into his mind and yet he could not articulate them.

“Tell me something of yourself, Myrddin, and of this person whom you seek in our kingdom,” pressed Lowri.

“Of me there is little to say. I came to this kingdom with no intent to harm it but merely to recover something.”

“Even more mysterious,” Lowri said. “You are a handsome and mysterious man, Myrddin. I have become attracted to you.”

She reached out and laid a cool hand on his cheek.

Myrddin tried to shake off the thoughts of the mysterious banner, and concentrate on Lowri. She was being deliberately provocative, her sensuous lips pouting, the expression one of promising excitement.

“You are a handsome woman, Lowri,” he conceded absently. “Tell me, your brother is close to your king Cynric?”

She frowned, unused to her advances being deflected.

“Centwine is Cynric’s thane and right-hand man. Why?”

“I would go to Cynric’s court. Where does it lie from here?”

Lowri laughed a little falsely.

“Truly, I think you are here to spy on Cynric to wish to hurry to his court and dismiss a more promising dalliance here. Cynric’s fortress lies over the next hill but I would have a care of going there. Any Briton found wandering about on his own would be cut down within half a mile of it. Cynric does not love Britons.”

“I hear the opposite,” Myrddin threw out the bait.

Lowri frowned.

“How so?”

“I hear that Cynric is enamoured of a British princess.”

The woman gave a dismissive sniff.

“The daughter of the former king of the Isle of Wight.”

“Just so. Gwendoloena of Ynys Wyth.”

Suddenly Lowri was suspicious.

“What do you know of this?” Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Is it for this Gwendoloena that you have come to this kingdom? Is it for her that you seek?”

Myrddin hastily shook his head but he had not fooled the Saxon princess.

Lowri smiled softly in satisfaction.

“So? It is true that Cynric is enamoured of this Gwendoloena. If you seek her, then you may rest assured that you will never see her again. She is beyond your powers of rescue. She is now safely lodged in the fortress of Cynric, beyond the hills there. Do you desire her yourself or has Gereint sent you to test out the land for a stronger force to come and attempt a rescue?”

Myrddin stood up. He tried to keep the irritation from his face. He had let his own arrogance lead him into admitting more than he should have done to this strange Saxon woman.

“I do not seek her, lady,” he denied. “I was curious about the stories that I had heard. That was all. I am no spy, nor am I enamoured of her.”

Lowri rose and stretched languidly.

She looked at him appraisingly under lowered lids.

“If that is so, it is not hard to disprove. I have a strange attraction to you, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains. Come and prove to me that you do not care aught for this Gwendoloena.”

She turned with slow, languorous movements, and walked into one of the darkened side rooms which surrounded the courtyard.

Myrddin glanced round quickly.

The only exit was barred by an armed slave. The only thing he could do was play along with Lowri and wait until he had a chance to leave without suspicion. He could not deny that his youthful male vanity was flattered by the Saxon woman’s overt erotic ardour. What man could deny such sensual adulation?

He hesitated but a fraction before he turned and followed Lowri into the bedchamber.

IX

When he awoke, Centwine was bending over him with a knife held at his throat.

Behind Centwine’s shoulder stood Lowri. She was combing her hair and smiling absently.

“I told you that it would be easy to discover his secret, brother. Where you waste time in torture, often physical gratification will bring better results.”

Myrddin silently cursed himself for a fool. He had been a fool all along, falling prey to temptation that any novitiate of the order would have spurned. And he was supposed to be a “man of oak wisdom”. He deserved to die at the hands of these Saxons for his stupid folly. He cursed his youth and his stupid vanity. Truly had the Venerable Fychan taught that danger breeds best on too much confidence. Vanity had led him into overconfidence. His expression told Centwine the truth of what his sister was saying.

The Saxon thane chuckled grimly.

“So? You are come to our land in search of the lady Gwendoloena? So either you come as a spy for Gereint or you are come to rescue her because you are in love with her yourself? Yes, I think the latter reason is the one. How noble! Never did I think the welisc were possessed of such nobility.”

He spat on the floor to emphasize his cynicism.

“Yet it is true, brother,” Lowri said indifferently. “His love-making was like lying with a tree trunk, so indifferent to my body was he, his mind was clearly on thoughts of his welisc bitch.”

Centwine’s hand came up and he hit Myrddin hard across the mouth.

“How were you going to effect a rescue?” he snarled. “Are there others waiting nearby to aid you?”

Myrddin blinked but did not reply.

“Where are your warriors?” demanded Centwine.

The hand struck again.

“I do not think he has any warriors,” interposed Lowri, dispassionately. “I think this poor moon-struck calf came of his own accord. He must have followed you from Llanelen for he recognized the battle banner.”

“Llanelen?”

Centwine peered forward and then swore.

“By Thunor’s stroke! I recall you now! You are the warrior who was fighting with our men in the courtyard of that abbey. So? You have done well, my sister. Now we know the dog.”

Myrddin moistened his lips.

“If I am to die, Saxon, tell me what your battle banner means. What is the symbol of the knot?”

Centwine raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“The banner? It was a trophy, a prize of war, taken in the time of Cerdic. We use it to remind the welisc of our conquest.”

“From where did you seize it?”

“Why would you want to know?” demanded Lowri, interested for once.

“I told you, I think I recognize it.”

“Well, before you die, welisc, I will tell you,” sneered Centwine. “And that death will be very soon. Get to your feet.”

Centwine backed off the bed.

Myrddin knew he had little choice. He made to rise, pretended to fall back, seizing the hand of the Saxon thane, and then exerting such pressure that, with the momentum of his backward fall, he heaved the surprised Saxon over his head. It took but a split second. His hand grabbed for the knife. Even before Lowri had uttered her scream, he had seized the knife and buried it in Centwine’s heart.

Then he was up, grabbing the woman and swinging her round to act as a shield before him as several slaves burst through the door to investigate the sounds of the commotion.

“Tell them to back off,” hissed Myrddin, “or you will be the next to die, lady.”

“Leave us!” screamed Lowri in terror. “Leave, or he will surely kill me.”

Reluctantly, the slaves edged out of the door.

“Now,” whispered Myrddin, savagely, for he still nursed an anger that he had been so fooled by this voluptuous woman for her own ends, “we shall walk slowly to the front of this villa. Order your slaves to have my horse saddled and my weapons waiting for me.”

Again, Lowri saw no alternative but to obey him. But after she had given the instructions she snarled at him: “It will avail you nothing, Myrddin. You may have killed Centwine but I also know your purpose. You are going to Cynric’s fortress to get the welisc bitch. Have no fear, for I will ensure that Cynric will be waiting for you.”

Myrddin bit his lip.

“Then if you are to warn Cynric, ’twere best I kill you now.”

Lowri had regained her composure now. He would kill her to save himself or for any one of a number of life-threatening reasons, but she knew he would not kill her in cold blood merely to silence her.

“I know about you ‘men of oak wisdom’. You have a code of honour which will not allow you to kill a defenceless woman, even a woman of an enemy race, just to silence them.”

Myrddin smiled thinly.

“This is true but …”

He spun her round quickly and stared deeply into her wide, surprised eyes, giving all his concentration to the ancient art which the Venerable Fychan had shown him.

“Your mind to my mind, Lowri,” he whispered intently. “Your soul to my soul. Concentrate, concentrate and sleep, sleep and in your sleep you will forget, forget …”

He saw her eyes glazing, the eyelids drooping, in spite of herself.

“Forget all about Myrddin, about Gwendoloena, forget about all this … Now, walk with me slowly to the gate where I will mount my horse and ride away. And you will then sleep. You will dismiss your servants, go to your bed and sleep, sleep for a day and a night and nothing will awake you until you arise refreshed but still in forgetfulness about what has happened. Do you understand?”

“I … understand,” she whispered.

Turning her again, he walked slowly with her through the courtyards of the villa, while slaves stood watching and scowling at him. Someone had brought his saddled horse, another handed him his weapons. Lowri stood passively, staring into the middle distance, while he buckled on his sword belt and clambered into his saddle.

“Sleep and forget!” he called and then he had kicked at his steed and sent it bounding away from the villa. But no cries of alarm came to his ears. The slaves seemed to be awaiting orders from Lowri, the sister of Centwine, but no orders appeared forthcoming.

Bending low along his horse’s neck, Myrddin determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the villa. There was no knowing whether his mesmerizing of Lowri would work and for how long. He had attempted the accomplishment only once or twice before and then on fellow students for short periods. He hardly believed that it worked at all. This he knew: that he had to effect the rescue of Gwendoloena from the fortress of Cynric immediately. The sooner he attempted it the better, for even the sight of her slain brother might awaken the memories in Lowri’s mind. If she was right, and the fortress of Cynric was not far distant, he had little time before the alarm was raised.

The one thing he wished he could have pressed further with Centwine and Lowri was the matter of the mysterious banner, the banner with the same embroidered knot emblem that had been on the blanket in which he had been found as a babe. Where had it come from? From whom had it been stolen? And did it mean that he was a scion of the house who used it as their symbol? Yet there was no time to consider the matter now.

He urged his horse to increase its stride, eventually turning from the main path that ran to the villa in order to conceal himself amidst the forest tracks.

X

Myrddin had concealed his horse in a small grove of oaks on the edge of a sprawling forest which surrounded the approaches to Cynric’s fortress. The fortress was a tall grey stone fortress which stood on top of a great rolling earthwork which crowned a large hill and dominated the plain below. A river pushed sedately by, just skirting the edge of the hill at one point. It had obviously been built in the olden days by the Britons to defend themselves against Roman attack, then vacated during the days of their occupation but reoccupied at the time of the Saxon invasion. Now the Britons, the former occupants of the fortress, had been forced away and the Saxons commanded the heights and reinforced the walls and vantage points of the fortress.

To Myrddin, as he lay hidden in the gorse and bracken of a nearby hill and examined the mighty gates, the patrolling warriors, the earth bank heights, it seemed an impossible task to infiltrate Cynric’s fortress and find Gwendoloena. He lay flat on his stomach, propping himself a little on his elbows, as he scanned the battlements with growing dismay. No wonder Cynric had decided not to destroy this fortress but occupy it in turn as his stronghold. The Britons had built it to withstand the storms of ages. And they had built it well.

Myrddin’s eyes narrowed and he sighed.

But then, he reminded himself, the fortress had fallen firstly to the Romans and then to the Saxons. Therefore, it was not impregnable. He simply had to find a way inside and …

His ears detected the rustle of the gorse a split second before he felt hands pinning his arms behind him, a gag thrust into his mouth to prevent him crying out, and a rope expertly used to bind him. Then a cloth was placed around his eyes and he was dragged to his feet.

He felt that there was more than one assailant around him but no one spoke. He had the impression that he was being dragged down a hill. There was a pause and, with a jerk, he realized that he had been thrown over the broad shoulders of a powerful man who carried his slight form as easily as a babe.

Once more Myrddin had cause to curse himself for his stupidity. A “man of oak wisdom”! He was but a silly, vain child, without knowledge. He was a mere boy let loose in the world whose years of training had counted as naught against the cunning and wiles of his enemies.

He had trained with Mawr, the warrior; had learnt the art of forest craft with Fychan, yet twice his concentration and concern about the rescue of Gwendoloena had blinded him to the very basic principle of survival. For the second time he had allowed the Saxons to catch him. He’d better start using his store of knowledge to better effect.

He wondered whether his mesmerism of Lowri had been insufficient and she had raised the alarm as to his purpose and plan.

With Centwine’s death, the Saxons would show him little mercy now, if mercy was ever a word in their vocabulary.

He dragged his mind away from his self-reproach, realizing that self-reproach was also an immature luxury he could not afford.

He realized, with some surprise, that he was being carried away from the Saxon fortress. The subconscious part of his mind had registered that his captors had taken him down the hill from his spypoint, but away from the fortress, and into the surrounding forest. Were they Lowri’s men intent on vengeance?

With a sudden abruptness, the man carrying him halted and flung him unceremoniously onto the earth, knocking the breath from his body.

Someone grasped his tunic and dragged him upright, thrusting him backwards, so that his back encountered the bole of a tree.

“Sit up!” hissed a voice in Saxon.

Myrddin presumed that he had been seated with his back against a tree. He felt puzzled.

A familiar voice came from a distance.

“What is it, Carannog?”

“A Saxon lookout. We found him near Cynric’s fortress. We might persuade him to tell us how to get inside.”

Myrddin was astonished.

The voices spoke in his own language. They were Britons. And why was the first speaker’s voice so familiar?

He struggled against his bonds.

“I doubt any Saxon would betray Cynric, even if his own life depended on it,” came another voice. “Better to kill him now, Carannog, and save us trouble.”

“No, wait!” It was the first voice. “The thing a Saxon warrior fears most is a death which is not in battle and without a sword in his hand. They believe that their god Woden will only allow them entry in their Otherworld, their Hall of Heroes … they call it Wael-haell. If they die bound and without a sword, then they have no after life.”

“A stupid belief,” sneered the unnamed third speaker.

“Stupid or not, Cadell, we will try to persuade our Saxon friend here that he will die bound and gagged and obtain no after life unless he shows us the way into Cynric’s fortress. Carannog!”

Myrddin felt a hand close on the cloth that had been placed over his head and it was wrenched away. Then someone loosened his gag.

He gasped as he sought to regulate his breathing.

“Now, Saxon, we have a proposition for you …” began Carannog.

“I am no Saxon. I am a Briton, like you!” Myrddin managed to say between his gasps for breath.

“What?” There was a gasp of astonishment from half a dozen throats.

Myrddin gazed up and focused on a burly, red-haired British warrior bending over him in surprise.

“Have you no eyes to recognize a Briton from a Saxon?” demanded Myrddin, recovering himself. “Untie me.”

“What trick is this?” returned Carannog. “What would a Briton be doing at Cynric’s fortress?”

“The same as you, seeking a way in,” snapped Myrddin.

“How can we believe you …?”

“We can believe him, for I have seen this man before.”

It was the owner of the first voice who spoke again.

A young man crossed the small forest clearing in which the group of British warriors were apparently resting.

Myrddin raised his eyes to meet the grim features of a young man, the young man named Artio whom he had encountered with the elderly Emrys, the dying High King of the Isle of the Mighty.

“This is the man who helped Emrys and I when we were attacked by Saxons. Your name is …?”

“Myrddin.”

“Just so. Release him, Carannog.”

The red-haired warrior, with a muttered curse, bent forward and cut Myrddin’s bonds. Myrddin came to his feet rubbing his chafed wrists.

“Now, Myrddin,” the young warrior said, “you have some explaining to do. What are you doing at Cynric’s fortress here in this kingdom of the West Saxons?”

Myrddin made a gesture of irritation.

“I have no more explaining to do than you, my friend,” he countered. “I left you with a dying man heading west to Dinas Emrys. Now I find you here in the land of Cynric.”

Artio looked annoyed, as if he were about to argue, and then he shrugged.

“We shall both swap tales. Mine is simple. Emrys, God be merciful to his soul, died before I had gone far. His bodyguard had just joined us, having come to seek us on the road, and so it was decided that some of them would escort his body on to Dinas Emrys. A dozen of us, those you see here, decided to return the Saxon raid before they learnt of the tragedy.”

“Why would you need to return the raid before they learnt of Emrys’ death?” asked Myrddin.

“Easy to tell. Once Cynric learns that Emrys is dead, and the Britons are without their High King, he will raise the West Saxons, indeed, he will raise all the kingdoms of the Angles and the Saxons to unite in a fresh attempt to annihilate the Britons. My aim is to forestall this with these chosen warriors. We planned to enter Cynric’s fortress and slay him and so balance the scales.”

“But with Emrys dead, is it not better to elect a new High King as soon as possible and prepare a defence?”

Artio grinned sourly.

“Alas, my friend Myrddin, you know little of the politics of our land. Emrys held the Britons together by the force of his personality, by the victories he won against the Saxons. It is only because of the unity that Emrys forced on them that the Britons have been able to keep the Saxons in check these last forty years. With Emrys gone, until a new strong leader emerges, the Britons will become a series of petty kingdoms, with their kings and chieftains arguing amongst each other. Hywel of Cornwall demands that he be recognized as the equal to Gereint of Dumnonia; Gwid of Elmet demands precedence over Padarn of Gwynedd; Tryffin of Dyfed believes he is superior to Cyngar of Powys and so on … each squabbling with each other over inconsequential considerations while the enemy is at their gates.”

Myrddin shook his head in sadness.

“Is there no one who can unite them?”

Artio shrugged.

“At this time, I can see no one person capable of such a deed. So, while the arguing goes on, I believe that a swift raid on Cynric’s fortress and his death would redress the balance and throw the Saxons into disarray, giving us time to mend our differences and restore the balance of power.”

Myrddin could see the logic of the plan.

“And now, your story, Myrddin. How came you here?”

“I was staying at the abbey at Llanelen when Cynric’s men stormed and burnt the abbey and killed many there.”

The youth named Artio looked concerned.

“And the Mother Abbess, the Abbess Aldan, was she killed?”

“No. But they kidnapped the lady Gwendoloena, daughter of the king of Ynys Wyth. I was there, though they knocked the senses from me. When I recovered, I tracked the raiders here.”

“What made you recognize Cynric’s men? Was Cynric their leader?”

“Not that I saw. But I recognized Centwine.”

Artio brought a fist into the palm of his other hand.

“By the Living God! This Centwine shall pay for his sacrilege.”

Myrddin’s lips thinned.

“He already has. But a few hours ago, I slew him. But not before I discovered that Cynric has Gwendoloena imprisoned in his fortress.”

Artio stared at Myrddin.

“You told me that you were no warrior, yet you act and think as a warrior.”

Myrddin shrugged.

“You know that I am a ‘man of oak wisdom’, Artio. I am a believer in the old gods.”

“Let each man honour his conscience. I care not which path you take so long as it leads by the parallel morality to the same place. Give me your hand, Myrddin, for I honour you.”

“The time to honour each other is when we have succeeded in our plan. Yours is to kill Cynric while mine must be to rescue Gwendoloena. However, in these plans we may join together for part of the way.”

Carannog stirred and sighed.

“You have seen Cynric’s fortress, Myrddin. It is impossible to scale the walls.”

Myrddin nodded and then grinned sharply.

“If it is impossible, then why attempt it?”

Artio frowned.

“What do you mean, Myrddin?”

“There are other ways into the fortress which are not impossible. For example, why not walk through the gates?”

Carannog laughed loudly.

“Because the Saxon warriors might object to a band of British warriors riding up to their king’s fortress and asking for entrance.”

“Then why go riding up as British warriors? You are in the land of the Saxons. Are there not enough Saxon garments about for the taking?”

Artio began to smile gently.

“I see what you are about, my friend. But, in fact, we do have another plan but we are not sure of it. That is why we have been seeking other ways.”

“What plan?”

Artio motioned to another of the warriors, a swarthy man with thin features.

“Cadell here was the son of Idwal whose home was once in that very fortress before the Saxons drove the Britons from it. Come here, Cadell, and tell your story.”

The thin man approached.

“Little to tell,” he said. “I was born in the west of Dumnonia where my father fled as a young man following the fall of the fortress yonder which Cynric now makes his own.”

“Go on,” pressed Artio when Cadell paused.

“I do not vouch for the truth of this,” he hesitated. “When I was young I used to listen to my father speak of the impregnable fortress of his people. He told me that the only reason that the fortress fell was because the Saxons had forced a local farmer, curses on his name, to reveal the existence of a tunnel which leads up from the river that skirts the hill. This is a passageway into the centre of the fortress. By this means, a band of Saxon warriors infiltrated the fortress and opened the gates to allow their fellows inside.”

“A tunnel? What sort of tunnel?”

“It was built to take effluence away from the fortress and into the river. A conduit. But that is the only information I have. I have no knowledge where such a secret tunnel starts or where it comes out.”

Myrddin thought for a moment.

“That may be enough for our purpose. If Cadell’s father was correct, then there is only a short stretch of river where the conduit can exit into. What Saxon warriors have done, we Britons can do.”

“You mean, we will climb into the fortress through the conduit?” asked Carannog.

“Certainly. If it leads to the river then there is only an area of one hundred yards on the far bank to search. We should soon find it, if it exists. Let us draw up a plan. How many speak the tongue of the Saxon?”

Artio glanced about at his men.

“We have a company of eleven, plus myself and now you. Thirteen all told, of which five of us speak the Saxon language.”

“Do you include me?” asked Myrddin. “For I also have knowledge of it.”

“Then six of us.”

“Very well. We must ensure that those who do not speak Saxon are always in the company of one of us who does, in case we need to bluff our way out of danger.”

“A good stratagem,” nodded Carannog.

“And it augurs well,” smiled Myrddin confidently. “For we have a leader and twelve to follow and that reflects good fortune for it is written that twelve followers constitutes a magical force.”

“Christ had twelve followers,” interposed Carannog.

“Which is why his influence was great,” agreed Myrddin, “for he must have known the significance of numerology to choose them and no more.”

“Very well,” Artio was a little impatient. “What now?” It was clear that he was not happy that Myrddin had assumed the authority of planning strategy.

“We must leave some men outside when we enter. A total of four, I think. Two men to guard the entrance of the conduit, for we may wish to make our exit through it, if all goes well. And two to place themselves on the hill where Carannog found me to watch the main gates. It will be the purpose of these men that, if we exit with the Saxons in pursuit, they must ensure our horses are available. We can tether them in the oak copse behind the hillock where I tethered my own.”

Artio nodded in agreement.

“That means nine of us shall enter the fortress.”

Myrddin grinned.

“Another number signifying good fortune. Nine is the sacred number of our people for the ancient heroes went in companies of nine.”

Artio was impatient.

“I know the ancient stories, Myrddin. And will this good fortune show us the way to the entrance of the conduit?”

“Let us hope so, my friend.” He glanced at the sky. “Dusk will soon be here. We will use its darkness to examine the river bank for sign of the conduit. Now who comes into the fortress and who remains outside?”

It was Artio who took over and made the necessary appointments.

“Once inside,” Artio added, “we must go quickly in search of Cynric.”

“And of Gwendoloena,” Myrddin pointed out.

Artio bit his lip as he considered.

“Agreed. We may have to split up for the task. You, Myrddin, may take Carannog and Cadell and search for her. I and the rest will look for Cynric. Each party will make their own way in case of trouble. And each party must place the success of its own task before any other consideration. If one party gets into trouble, the other must continue. We must have no useless sacrifices.”

“Agreed,” Myrddin said.

“Then,” Artio glanced up at the darkening sky, “let us be about this work.”

XI

They crossed the river just after dusk. There was a brisk current to it and Cadell recalled that in his father’s day it was called Fram, which meant “briskly flowing”. All Artio’s men were good swimmers and there was no problem to the crossing. Once on the far side, they divided into the two parties, the quicker to traverse the river bank in search of the entrance to the conduit.

It was Cadell, appropriately enough, who found it. A tunnel opening straight into the river under a small outcrop of rocks. The only way one could gain entrance was to climb into the river and swim into its dark, cavernous maw. The entrance was not large; indeed, it was only big enough to take two men abreast.

Myrddin and Cadell went first to make a reconnaissance.

The smell from the effluence was putrid and almost took away their breath.

“We need a light,” muttered Myrddin as he tried to peer into the black depths of the entrance.

Cadell offered to swim back and see if there was something which could be used.

He returned after what seemed an eternity to Myrddin, who was waiting in the darkness, waist high in cold water.

“I have a brand torch,” Cadell whispered, “Artio had several made in case they were needed. I am holding it above my head. Round my neck, to keep it out of the water, is a bag of flints and tinder. Do you think you can strike a light?”

Myrddin, his eyes having grown accustomed to the gloom, waded across to the man and took the bag. He had seen some sort of ledge to the side of the entrance, just above the water level, and he waded towards it and felt its surface. It was dry enough and so he placed the flints and tinder on it and managed to strike a light quite easily. He enkindled the brand torch and held it up high.

It was the conduit right enough. A channel had been cut through the rock and earth leading upwards towards the fortress on the top of the hill. It was no bigger than four feet wide and the same measurement in height. The incline was steep. To one side, a deeply grooved channel showed where the waste was pushed down into the river, while to the other side, on a slightly raised area above the channel, was a paved way whose incline was softened by steps every so often.

“Perfect,” breathed Myrddin. “All we have to do is follow this path upwards. Cadell, fetch the others, and tell them to bring the other brand torches in case they are needed.”

Myrddin heaved himself out of the river water and onto the dry path.

He was suddenly aware of a squeaking noise and of black shapes darting hither and thither along the pathway. He held up the torch and shivered. Rats. He might have known. He hoped that the light would scare them from the path.

It was a few moments before Artio and the others came crowding behind Cadell.

“There is only room for one man at a time to move up the path,” Myrddin said. “So we must go in single file. I propose that I go first, next Cadell, and then you, Artio, and your men.”

The young warrior hesitated as if to object but Myrddin was already moving upwards and Cadell was hauling himself out of the water behind him.

There was a pause while another torch was lit and then the file of Britons were moving up the ancient conduit towards the heart of the fortress.

It seemed a long and tiring journey. Every so often they were forced to pause, so steep, and sometimes so slippery, was the pathway. The conduit was evil-smelling and nearly choked them with its foul odours.

Eventually, Myrddin signalled a halt.

“I think the entrance is just above,” he whispered to Cadell, telling him to pass the information back to Artio and the others.

Myrddin moved forward carefully. The conduit had reached its starting point. It was a cold, granite-slabbed room without light and full of refuse and waste of all kinds. Myrddin moved across to the entrance of the room. It gave on to a corridor, lit with flickering torches.

He turned back as Artio joined him.

“We’ll extinguish our own torches now. This is a main corridor within the heart of the fortress. We will have to find our separate ways from here.”

Artio compressed his lips.

It had sounded all right in the planning, but now it seemed an impossible task. How were they to find Cynric’s chamber or, indeed, where Gwendoloena was imprisoned, from here? How were they to make their way through the complex corridors of the fortress, to find the right rooms, without raising the alarm?

However, Artio was not a man to change his mind without good cause.

“Very well. Remember, each man for himself. If either party be discovered, it is up to the other one to succeed in their task. Is that understood?”

Myrddin signified his agreement.

“Good. You, Cadell and Carannog go first. Which way will you go?”

Myrddin shrugged.

“One way is as good as another. We’ll take the left branch of the corridor.”

He extinguished the torch and signalled to Carannog and Cadell to follow him.

Cautiously, with swords drawn, they moved away from the conduit room. Myrddin made careful mental notes of which way they went in relation to the room for soon they might have to return there in a hurry and make good their escape.

The area of the fortress they were in was obviously used for storage, and soon cooking smells came to Myrddin’s senses. Wherever Cynric’s apartments were they would surely not be placed too near the kitchens. He gently tugged on his lower lip as he tried to consider what best to do.

There came the sound of a footfall.

It was Cadell who seized his sleeve and pulled him back into a darkened alcove off the passageway.

An elderly man, weighed down under the weight of a full side of beef, which he carried on his shoulders, came shuffling along the corridor. The man was clearly a slave for he wore an iron collar around his neck.

Myrddin pressed back into the shadows as the old man passed by and entered a doorway a few yards away.

Luckily the old one was too absorbed in his task to notice the three armed men shielding themselves in the dark recess. Or perhaps he did not care?

A thought suddenly occurred to Myrddin. He turned to the others and whispered: “I mean to question the slave when he comes back. Help me.”

He turned back to the corridor.

The old man, divested of his side of beef, had left the room and was shuffling back along the corridor, eyes downcast and without apparent interest other than placing one foot in front of the other.

Myrddin decided to gamble on the attitude of the other. The man was a slave and his instinct was to obey. Myrddin stepped into the path of the old man and said in harsh Saxon: “Come with me!”

The old man hesitated, but he did not even raise his eyes to Myrddin. He obediently shuffled after him.

Cadell and Carannog fell in behind, not believing the simplicity of the situation.

Myrddin turned into an empty room which he had previously noticed further down the corridor. The old man followed with Cadell and Carannog on his heels. Carannog swung the door shut behind them.

“I want you to answer me some question, old one,” snapped Myrddin, still speaking in Saxon.

The slave coughed nervously, but did not raise his eyes.

“At your command, my lord,” he mumbled.

“Where does Cynric keep his prisoners? I mean the prisoners he has recently taken in raids?”

“He does not, my lord. They are either sold as slaves, like me, or else slain.”

“Then do you know of a female prisoner recently brought to this place? She was recently taken and is a Briton.”

The old one shrugged.

“I have heard nothing of such matters.”

Myrddin swore softly.

“Then we must go and ask Cynric personally,” he muttered, half to himself. “Tell me, old one, where are Cynric’s apartments?”

“On the floor above this one, lord.”

“You must take us there.”

“I am a kitchen churl. I am not allowed out of the kitchens, lord.”

“I am ordering you, slave!” snapped Myrddin.

“I can only obey the overseer of the kitchen slaves, lord. It is more than my life is worth to leave this level.”

Myrddin gave an exasperated sigh.

“Very well, how do we reach the floor above?”

“There are stairs at the end of this corridor, lord.”

“Listen, slave. You will remain here until someone releases you. If you cry out then I will return and kill you.”

“Yes, lord.” There was no emotion to the old man’s voice, just a quiet resignation.

They found the stairs easily enough but the corridor above was not so deserted as the one below. Warriors strolled up and down it with weapons drawn. Cynric was a careful monarch.

Myrddin crouched with Cadell and Carannog in the shadow of the stairwell wondering what to do.

As if in answer to his thoughts a door along the passageway opened and an imperious but familiar voice called out.

“Guard! Bring the girl to me. I will see her now!”

Myrddin had no difficulty recognizing the voice of Cynric.

A guard jerked to attention and then went hurrying away, his leather-soled shoes slapping on the stone flags of the corridor as he sped to his task.

Myrddin exchanged glances with Cadell and Carannog.

There was still another guard standing outside the door from which the man had called. But if they were quick they could cross the corridor and get into the room facing them. Perhaps there was a way through to Cynric’s chamber from there. Myrddin conveyed this idea to the others tersely. They nodded agreement.

Myrddin went first, swung open the door and prayed there was no one inside. There was not. It was an empty room. He turned and waved the others across and closed the door behind them.

Cadell had crossed to the window.

“A sheer drop to the valley below,” he muttered. “We are deceptively high up here. But …” he suddenly leaned out of the window and peered along, “come and see. There is a small ledge which runs from this window along to the other rooms. It might be just big enough for a man to edge his way along.”

Myrddin glanced out and saw that Cadell was right. Nevertheless, one false step and there would be no reprieve. It was certain death to fall from the wall of the fortress down into the valley below.

There was a noise in the corridor outside.

Myrddin crossed swiftly back and inched the door open only a fraction.

His heart skipped a beat.

The dishevelled figure of Gwendoloena was being dragged along by two grinning Saxon warriors. Her dress was torn, her hair in disarray and there was a smudge of blood on her cheek. Yet she held her chin defiantly and there was no hint of tears on her face. Myrddin’s heart went out to her.

Then she was gone from his sight.

He turned back to the others.

“There is no choice but to go along the ledge. I am not asking you to do so. I will do it and, when you hear that I am in need of you, try to fight your way along the corridor to me.”

Carannog grinned and shook his head.

“Where you go, Myrddin, we will follow. I have never felt such confidence in a leader before, unless it be young Artio. You have not only led us safely into Cynric’s fortress but we stand yards from Cynric himself.”

Myrddin laid a hand momentarily on his shoulder.

“Then let us not waste time.”

He sheathed his weapon and climbed out on the ledge. It was twelve inches in width and to move along it one had to stand, back to the wall, and ease along. The wind whispered and whipped at his clothing and hair. It was Myrddin’s gift that he had never known a fear of heights, even as a small boy when the Venerable Fychan used to take him up to the inaccessible mountain peaks of the west, the better they might commune with the ancient powers and the gods and goddesses which peopled the purple peaks of the Gwynedd.

He moved cautiously only because moss and other growths made the ledge a little slippery.

He paused when they came to a window and listened for a moment, wondering if anyone was in that room. There was a silence and so he moved on. A second window and a second room was passed. Thankfully, these were also empty.

Myrddin heard a sudden gasp to his right, a scrabbling noise and the falling of stones. He turned his head, fearing the worst.

Indeed, Cadell, following him, was hanging by one hand on the ledge. Carannog was not far away and even as Myrddin looked, the man had sprung into the room over the window ledge and was reaching out to drag Cadell by the one arm upwards and into it safely. Had Cadell slipped in any other position along the ledge there would have been no way that Carannog could have aided him.

Myrddin let out a sigh of relief as he saw Cadell’s legs disappear over the ledge into the room.

He eased himself back to the spot and followed.

Cadell was standing trying to recover his breath, panting as he realized just how close to death he had been.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Myrddin did not respond.

“I think Cynric is in the next chamber,” he said, “But it might be hard to surprise him coming in from the window.”

He saw Carannog grin and he raised his eyebrow in silent interrogation. The warrior pointed.

“Then why not use a door?” whispered the warrior.

Myrddin turned towards the wall that he had indicated.

Indeed, there was a wooden door separating this chamber from the next one. Myrddin realized that this was probably Cynric’s sleeping chamber for there was a richly tapestried bed in one corner and a few other items of furniture as well as rugs which indicated what use the room was put to.

Myrddin went to the door and pressed his ear against it. The door was of thick oak and while he could hear voices rising and falling he could make no sense of the words.

He glanced down at the iron ring which secured the latch, gave a warning glance to the others and then carefully turned it. It turned silently and he gently drew it open a fraction.

So concentrating was he on opening the door without noise that he let the latch fall with a clatter.

It seemed an eternity in which there was a deathly silence in the room beyond.

Everyone must have heard the door being opened.

Then there was shouting. A door crashed open in the room beyond.

“My lord, my lord, we have cornered a band of armed slaves by the gates!”

“Slaves?”

“Yes, lord. Who else could they be but slaves in revolt? But we have them. They are not a large force.”

Myrddin gave a startled glance to Cadell and Carannog.

Artio and his party must have been discovered and mistaken for rebellious slaves. He felt the urge to run to their aid. But it was each man to his own task. Artio had said so.

“Send the guards there and disarm them,” cried a voice. “I do not want them killed. Bring them to me. How can my fortress be threatened by armed slaves? I shall want explanations. The commander of my guards will suffer for this indignity to my honour!”

Cynric’s voice was almost hysterical with rage.

“Yes, lord! The girl, lord? Shall we take her back to her dungeon?”

“No! I am man enough for a girl. Go, go quickly and rouse all the guards! Let no one escape and let no one be killed. They say all die slowly! Go! Go!”

The door beyond slammed.

Myrddin was unable to believe the service which Artio had unwittingly paid him.

“Now, you stubborn bitch,” Cynric was saying, “my patience is at an end. You have spent several days in my dungeons refusing food. The choice whether you now live or die is yours. I offer you the honour to be my concubine and you spit at me. Either you come willingly to my bed or I shall turn you over to the male slaves to occupy themselves with. Speak!”

Drawing his sword, Myrddin motioned to the others and they pushed into the room.

In a split second Myrddin’s eye took in the entire scene.

This was undoubtedly the reception room of Cynric of the West Saxons. Cynric believed in pampering himself. Soft draperies covered the walls, and fine upholstered chairs and couches graced the rug-strewn room. A fire blazed in a hearth before which, sprawled on a rug on the floor, was the figure of Gwendoloena.

A man stood above her, feet astride, hands on hips. He held a short whip in his hand and had obviously been ill-treating her. It was Cynric.

Now he glanced up in surprise as Myrddin and his comrades entered; his mouth opened, but Myrddin simply presented the point of his sword towards his throat and the cry for help was stillborn.

“Cadell, secure the door. Carannog, stay by the other one.”

Gwendoloena raised her head at the sound of his voice and a mixture of expressions chased each other across her features.

“Myrddin!”

Myrddin reached down with one arm and drew the girl to him. She did not resist the intimacy of his embrace but clung joyously to him.

“Thanks be, you have come!”

“So?” There was a sneer in the Saxon’s voice. “We meet again, Myrddin. You are, indeed, a skilful enemy. How came you here?”

He did not seem alarmed, merely surprised. Cynric was confident in his own fortress.

“Easy enough.” Myrddin’s smile held no mirth. “Has he abused your honour, Gwendoloena?”

The girl blushed but shook her head.

“Thanks be, no. But he has harmed my dignity right enough. Him and that Centwine …”

“Have no fear of Centwine,” interrupted Myrddin. “He is already dead.”

Cynric’s eyes widened, for the first time there was a tinge of fear in them.

“You have murdered Centwine?” he breathed as if unable to believe his ears.

“I objected to Centwine holding a knife at my throat. So I slew him. There was also the matter of his branding iron to take into account.”

Cynric glanced around quickly as if expecting his guards to come to his aid.

“You will never get out of this fortress alive, Briton.”

“As we entered it, so shall we exit,” Myrddin assured him without humour.

“We should hurry, Myrddin,” warned Carannog. “His guards may come back any moment.”

“Indeed, and when they do we will use you as a roast upon the spit,” threatened Cynric.

“We must do as Artio planned as well as rescue the girl,” Cadell said. “Let me do this, Myrddin.”

Myrddin bit his lip. He had little stomach for it. Yet he had promised Artio.

“No, it is my responsibility.”

He motioned to Cadell to take the trembling girl from him.

Cynric was watching Myrddin’s eyes and read what was in his mind.

With a wild cry like an animal, he leapt across the room and seized a lance from the wall, whirling it over his head so that Myrddin was forced to back away.

“Now, dog of a Briton, you will pay for this affront!” he cried.

Myrddin had stopped. He was staring at the silken flag which was fluttering from the lance. It bore the embroidered knot that was haunting his life.

“For God’s sake!” yelled Carannog, leaping across the room and giving Myrddin a shove.

The lance split the air where Myrddin had been transfixed and grazed Carannog’s shoulder, causing him to wince in pain and swing backwards.

The jolt brought Myrddin to his senses.

Cynric was rushing forward again, lance point at the ready. Myrddin dropped under the point, shouldering it upwards, and thrust out with the tip of his sword. It entered Cynric’s body in an upward stroke just below his breastbone. With a quick twist, Myrddin brought it out, so that Cynric jerked back with a terrible cry and dropped the lance from his hands.

The young Saxon king fell to his knees, his two arms cradling his upper stomach where the entry wound had been made. Blood began to dribble from his mouth.

Wrenching the lance away, Myrddin dropped to his knees beside the Saxon.

“Tell me, you must tell me, where did you get that banner? What does that knot signify?”

Cynric’s eyes were already glazing but even in his dying moments he forced a tight smile.

“Rot in hell … Briton!”

With the death rattle in his throat, he fell to the floor and lay still.

“Myrddin, we must hurry!”

Myrddin was aware of Carannog crying in anxiety to him.

He took up his sword, rose and hurried to the door into the passageway.

“Are you all right, Carannog?” he asked, noticing the spreading stain of blood on the other’s shoulder.

“I have had worse pinpricks, Myrddin,” Carannog grinned. “A flesh wound, nothing more.”

“Very well. I plan to get back to the conduit and escape that way.”

“What of Artio?” demanded Cadell.

“You know what was agreed,” Carannog rebuked him. “Time to think of him when the lady is safe.”

“Let’s go then!”

They opened the door cautiously onto the passage. The guards were gone on the orders of Cynric. They hurried to the stairwell and moved down the stairs to the floor below. As before, the kitchen corridor seemed empty. Swiftly, Myrddin led the way along it. The girl kept up with them without complaint.

“Lady,” Myrddin turned to her, as they entered the refuse room, “the way is not a nice path but it is a safe one. Will you trust us?”

Gwendoloena smiled confidently at Myrddin.

“I have trusted you ever since I first saw you at Llanelen,” she replied fervently.

Myrddin found himself blushing. To disguise his embarrassment he bent to light the brand torch which he had discarded when they first arrived in the fortress.

“I’ll go first. You will follow. Carannog and Cadell will come behind.”

Gwendoloena nodded and made no complaint as he climbed into the foul-smelling tunnel and motioned for her to follow.

They had gone about halfway down the conduit when Cadell gave an urgent whisper.

“We are being followed, Myrddin.”

Myrddin raised his hand to halt the company, listening. The sounds of several people coming after them down the inclining tunnel were clear. Without a word Myrddin waved them on again, increasing the pace slightly to keep ahead of their pursuers. There was only one thing to do. He would have to order Carannog and Cadell to push on to the rendezvous with the horses, taking Gwendoloena with them. One man could stop the pursuit for a while by placing himself at the tunnel entrance where there was only room for one to swing a blade.

As they reached the bottom of the tunnelway and plunged into the cold river water which filled the tunnel entrance, Myrddin, in terse tones, told them of his plan.

Gwendoloena would have protested but Cadell and Carannog realized it was the only chance for some of them to escape.

The sounds of pursuit were close now.

They simply seized Gwendoloena and drew her out into the river where the two men Artio had placed on guard came forward to aid them across the brisk river current towards the forest where the horses were tethered.

Myrddin drew his sword and extinguished the brand torch, positioning himself ready to withstand the assault of the Saxon warriors.

They came sliding and slipping along the tunnel.

“Here’s the entrance, Artio,” the leading figure called as Myrddin was about to raise his sword and plunge it into the dark shadow. “Where’s the brand torch?”

The third figure appeared, carrying the torch.

Myrddin swallowed hard.

“Is that you, Artio?”

“Myrddin!” came the young warrior’s surprised tones. “We thought you had been captured!”

The warriors of Artio came spilling from the tunnel, voices raised in excitement.

“Hush! We are not out of danger yet,” snapped Artio as he came wading into the water and facing Myrddin. “What happened? Where are Cadell and Carannog?”

“With the lady Gwendoloena, hopefully on the other side of the river. We thought you and your men were trapped by the main gates of the fortress.”

Artio grinned in the flickering light.

“So did the Saxons. We were looking for Cynric’s chambers when we were spotted.”

“How did you escape? I hear no sounds of pursuit.”

“Easy to tell. We found some Saxon prisoners awaiting execution. We released them, gave them weapons, and many of them preferred to fight than go willingly to a ritual death. I think they are still fighting Cynric’s guards now. Alas, we did not find Cynric’s chambers and, with the guards alerted for us, we decided a withdrawal was the best policy until we can devise a new plan. What of you?”

“As I say, Gwendoloena is safe and you need have no worries for Cynric,” Myrddin said grimly.

“Why so?”

“Cynric is dead. I slew him.”

Artio stared at him, astounded.

“You are truly a great warrior, Myrddin,” he breathed in reluctant admiration. But he was unable to keep the slight tinge of envy from his tone. He had set himself the task of slaying the Saxon king and now he found himself robbed of the deed.

Myrddin grimaced.

“I have said before that I am no warrior.”

“Then I would like to be by your side if you ever decide to become a warrior,” Artio chuckled, recovering his humour.

“We best move across the river and get away from this accursed land,” muttered one of Artio’s band, for they were standing shivering in the cold waters of the tiny cavern.

“Indeed,” agreed Artio fervently. “Let us make our withdrawal.”

XII

The sun was high in the sky when the column of horsemen entered the foothills of eastern Dumnonia, across the broad river which provided the current main border between the war-stricken kingdom and its neighbour. The young warrior Artio rode at their head while behind him came Myrddin and Gwendoloena. They had been almost inseparable during the two days of travel through the darkened forests of the land of the West Saxons. There was no need to tell the rest of the company who came on behind them what the two felt for each other. Romance was clearly in the air.

When they stopped to rest at midday, by a small stream, Artio came and seated himself beside them.

“Do you plan to take the lady Gwendoloena back to Llanelen Abbey?”

Myrddin stared at him a moment. In fact, for the first time since his departure from Cynric’s fortress, he realized that he had been travelling without purpose, merely allowing himself to follow the tide, content to be only in the company of Gwendoloena. It was the girl who answered for him.

“Yes. The abbess is my guardian, my foster-mother, since the Saxons slew my family. It is my duty to return to her.”

“And you, Myrddin? You will go to Llanelen?” pressed Artio.

“I shall,” said Myrddin, so ardently that Artio could not suppress a grin while Gwendoloena had the grace to blush.

“But then? What are your plans? For I have witnessed your mettle. The Isle of the Mighty needs such men as you in these perilous times. Even though Cynric is dead, the Saxons will soon gather strength again and contest the supremacy of this island with us. They will try and drive us out of this land. We will need every man we have.”

Myrddin nodded.

“When that time comes, I shall not be wanting, Artio. But after Llanelen, though much depends on the lady Gwendoloena here, there are other quests I must fulfil.”

“Quests?” Artio asked, interested.

Myrddin smiled softly.

“Alas, they are of a nature that I cannot speak more of them. But they are of importance to me.”

Artio sighed in disappointment.

“Then, my friends, it seems our paths diverge once we reach the edge of that forest yonder,” he pointed with outstretched hand. “I must go back to Dinas Emrys with the news of the success of our raid and I can assure you that the name of Myrddin will soon be on the tongues of the bards of Dinas Emrys.”

Myrddin shook his head. He was aware of his faults and knew how guilty he was of the very fault which the Venerable Fychan had warned him against.

“There is little enough to sing about Myrddin. He was a youth who thought he knew all things and found he knew little; he was tempted in self-delusion, in vanity and in desire. He has since learnt many things; above all he has learnt of the depth of the emotion of love. But of the things he thought he had set out to learn, he learnt nothing. Myrddin is no one to sing about.”

Gwendoloena reached forward and touched his hand.

“Admitting that you have learnt nothing is the start of learning.”

Myrddin grimaced.

“You are wise in your youth, Gwendoloena,” he said.

Artio chuckled softly.

“One thing you have learnt is humility. But beware of false humility, Myrddin, my friend. Learn to know your assets as well as your faults. But still the bards of Dinas Emrys shall sing of your deeds. The death of Cynric has bought us time. Let us hope that the squabbling of the petty chieftains will be overcome and they can agree on a new High King who will unite them and strengthen them against the war that is to come out of the east. For too long the black raven of death and battles has swooped on our defenceless people out of the eastern skies. Would the raven will fly from the west now.”

Myrddin stirred as he remembered what the old master, Fychan, had said.

“All I can say, Artio, is that I once heard a prophecy that the raven will soon fly from the west,” Myrddin assured him. “The time will be soon.”

Artio snorted in disgust.

“We need no more prophecies, my friend. We need a sign and a strong leader.”

“He will surely come,” Gwendoloena said. “If he does not then the people of the Isle of the Mighty will go down into the abyss and be no more.”

It was two hours later, beyond the edge of the forest, that Myrddin and Artio embraced as if they had been brothers. He embraced Carannog and Cadell also, his companions in adventure, and received warm hand clasps from the rest of Artio’s men. Then he and Gwendoloena sat on their horses watching the column of riders turn north-west through the foothills which led to the mountains of the west. Only when they had vanished did he and Gwendoloena turn south-west through the rolling hills of western Dumnonia towards the abbey of Llanelen.

It was another full day before they came to Llanelen again. The abbey still stood fairly intact, with its grey granite scorched and blackened, but it seemed that the sisters of the community had managed to douse the flames before they could destroy the towering buildings.

Someone must have seen their approach along the road for suddenly a group of sisters came crowding to the gates. A hubbub of sounds arose from them. Myrddin recognized Sister Rhinwedd, the gatekeeper, trying to chide her fellow religieuses for their unseemly display of excitement. But she, too, was pleased to see them.

Myrddin halted his horse and dismounted, turning to help a smiling Gwendoloena down.

As they turned, the Abbess Aldan came striding forward. She said nothing, her face wreathed with smiles, as she held out her arms to the girl who went running forward to embrace her.

Abbess Aldan gazed across the girl’s shoulder at Myrddin.

“You have done well, my son. If one man could succeed in this task, I knew it would be you.”

Myrddin gestured deprecatingly. “I could not accomplish Gwendoloena’s rescue on my own. I had help.”

The abbess glanced at him in interrogation.

“A young warrior named Artio and his men helped me enter Cynric’s fortress.”

“Artio? Artio son of Uther, nephew to Emrys?”

“I knew only that he was Artio and one time companion to Emrys.”

Abbess Aldan turned back to Gwendoloena and held her at arm’s length.

“And you, my child, are you hurt? Has any harm or dishonour been done to you?”

Gwendoloena smiled happily.

“None that lasts in my memory, Mother Abbess.”

Abbess Aldan was wise and she saw the happy glances that were exchanged between Gwendoloena and Myrddin. It would have taken someone less sensitive to ignore what they meant.

“Come. I am forgetting my etiquette and keeping you standing before our gates. Come to my chambers so that you may tell me all while we drink mulled wine together.”

As she led the way she asked over her shoulder:

“And where is the young bear now?”

“Young bear?” Myrddin was puzzled.

“Why, young Artio, of course.”

“Artio? Why, he has gone to Dinas Emrys. But why do you call him ‘young bear’?”

Abbess Aldan laughed softly.

“I thought you were possessed of all knowledge, Myrddin,” she chided. “What does the name Artio signify …?”

Myrddin’s eyes widened.

He had thought of the name as no more than a name. But its meaning, in the ancient tongue of their forefathers, was “bear”. Artio was an ancient deity among the old gods; the hunter, protector of the forests and guardian of the bear people which dwelt within their darker recesses. Artio the Bear.

He halted in mid-stride. He felt suddenly foolish, stupid and blind and not worthy at all to call himself a brother of the oak wisdom. He was but a child playing without understanding. Time and time again in this questing he had made such mistakes as only a fool would make. He was a conceited fool.

To his mind came the voice of the Venerable Fychan.

“I have seen a vision that there will come a bear from the west and drive all before him and his name will be spoken of down the centuries.”

And then the strange and ancient guardian of the Cave of the Sword.

“You will set the path for the hero to come. That is your destiny, son of the divine water. You have gazed upon the magical sword, Caladfwlch, you know its purpose. The hero is coming soon. He is the bear that will come out of the west to save his people at the time of greatest peril. He must pluck the sword from the stone and become invincible.”

Myrddin groaned and hit his balled fist in the palm of his hand.

He was aware of Gwendoloena’s troubled gaze and her soft hand gently on his cheek.

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, anxiety tingeing her voice.

Myrddin grimaced in annoyance.

“I am a stupid knave, that is all. I have been vain and my vanity has made me blind. I still have a quest to fulfil.”

The Abbess Aldan smiled thinly.

“Your quest can wait an hour or so, Myrddin. I think there are other things that you would wish to learn before you set forth again. Come.”

She turned into her chamber and gave instructions to a sister to prepare wine for them while she sought the details of their adventure.

At the point where Myrddin recounted the finding of the banner with its embroidered knot, the abbess interrupted him with excitement in her eyes.

“And this banner was in the house of Centwine?”

“Rather Centwine’s sister, Lowri,” admitted Myrddin, wishing, in the presence of Gwendoloena, to gloss over that encounter. Yet he desired to know the meaning of that banner.

“I see,” the abbess breathed. “Cynric was not possessed of it?”

“Yes,” Myrddin admitted. “He had a lance with a smaller version of the banner attached to it. What does this symbol mean? They said it was Cynric’s battle banner, a banner to remind the Britons that the Saxons were conquerors. I do not understand.”

Abbess Aldan rose and paced before their puzzled gazes, pressing her hands together for a while. Then she halted.

“You deserve the truth,” she said, at last. Then she looked from Myrddin to Gwendoloena and back again. “You both deserve the truth for you both wish to marry each other, is that not so?”

Gwendoloena coloured a little and nodded.

“Is it so apparent, Mother Abbess?”

“You shout it from the hilltops, my child,” smiled the religieuse.

“It is true enough.”

Abbess Aldan turned her gaze to Myrddin.

“And you, my son? Do you love Gwendoloena?”

Myrddin nodded emphatically.

“Then you deserve the truth. The banner and its symbol was the emblem of a noble family of Britons who dwelt in the southeast of Dumnonia a generation ago. One day Cerdic, the father of Cynric, and his Saxons came raiding. The story is, alas, one that is all too common in these sad times. The Saxons massacred the family apart from a young daughter of the house. She was a comely maiden who had never known a man. Cerdic took her for his plaything. I need not go into details.

“One day, the girl became heavy with Cerdic’s child. This girl escaped from the Saxon camp and crawled off into the cold snowstorms. She wanted more than anything to die. To kill herself and that child of Cerdic’s within her womb. But God did not let her die. She gave birth, the snow reddened with her blood. Her first thought was to throw that crying child into the icy stream by which she had given it birth. Yet something stayed her hand. Even as she gazed upon it, she realized the innocence in that child. We enter this earth innocent and it is only what we are taught that guides our destinies.”

The abbess paused.

Gwendoloena reached out and grasped Myrddin’s hand firmly.

“What happened to that innocent babe and his mother?” the girl demanded.

“The mother wandered many weeks with that baby to the west until she came to the house of the steward to a wise teacher, one who still followed the old ways. She left the child wrapped in a piece of blanket on which that noble symbol of her ancestors was inscribed. It broke her heart to abandon him. But she knew that it was her destiny and his destiny that it be so. She left him and went forth into the world and joined a community of religieuses, where she prospered.”

The Abbess Aldan raised her head and gazed into the eyes of Myrddin.

“She often asked herself if the child prospered. And she came to know he did … His destiny is a great one and now she has no regrets that she had to do what she had to do.”

Myrddin’s face showed a conflict of emotions as he realized the truth of his background. He used every effort of his training to control the tempest of emotion within him, knowing that the abbess’s manner precluded any familiarity. Her emotions were held in check by a lifetime of self-denial. Myrddin deflected his thoughts by asking:

“And the West Saxons use this emblem on their battle banner to stress their victory over the Britons? The emblem of their defeated enemy?”

“That is so.”

“And the baby you speak of grew to manhood believing himself to be a Briton yet all the while base Saxon blood flowed in his veins?”

“Hardly base. He was of the seed of Cerdic and of Saxon kings. There is some nobility in that. But even more, he is more his mother’s child. Do not our cousins, the Picts of the north, appoint our kings from the line of the mother? Their reasoning is that one may not necessarily know who a person’s father is, but one is always sure to know the mother. And the child’s mother’s line was Briton and noble. He was raised by the best intellects of the Britons and in him rests the hope of the Britons.”

“But he is half Saxon,” Myrddin pointed out stubbornly.

“By blood only. And blood is of little consequence. It spills and is diminished. The intellect is beyond blood for by intellect a man or woman may become anything they choose and transcend all man-made boundaries and prejudice. You are what you believe you are and what you are capable of doing.”

Myrddin sat awhile in thought. Then, finally, he gave a long exhalation of his breath. He had matured a lot during these last few days. When he had left the house of the Venerable Fychan, he had thought he knew all there was to know in preparation for his life. What he had come to realize was his ignorance. He had learnt much recently but the more his self-knowledge increased the more his ignorance had unfolded. He was contrite as he realized what the Venerable Fychan had tried to warn him of. Well, one thing he had realized: the desire of knowledge, like the thirst for riches, ever increased with the acquisition of it.

“It would make me happy, Mother Abbess, and it would ease my anxiety if you could continue to give sanctuary to Gwendoloena while I am away.”

Gwendoloena turned in surprise.

“Where are you going, Myrddin? I will come with you.”

Myrddin turned to her and sadly shook his head.

“Gwendoloena, I have come to love and need you as I do the air that I breathe. But I cannot marry yet for I have realized that I am not prepared. Hear me,” he continued quickly, as he saw the reaction in her face, “I do not mean to hurt you. I will return for you, that is certain. But first I must return beyond the western mountains to fulfil my quest for self-knowledge. For only when I have that self-knowledge will I be able to come to the maturity necessary for my purpose in life.”

The girl was trying hard to understand.

“What purpose do you speak of, Myrddin?”

“There is a task I must perform. As I have said, I must find Artio again and set him on the path for his great destiny. I cannot do that unless I am capable of doing it.”

The girl was puzzled.

“Artio? What destiny, Myrddin? What is Artio’s destiny?”

“His is the right to hold the sword called Caladfwlch, the sacred sword of gods and champions, and be acclaimed our High King. Only he can lead our people to shelter from the gathering Saxon storm. I have finally realized the goal of my own quest. And must prepare for that quest.”

The Abbess Aldan smiled softly.

“We shall take care of Gwendoloena. I know you shall return, my son, even as she knows it. And it shall be even as you say. Whenever the name of Artio is mentioned by future generations, then shall the name of Myrddin, his counsellor, also be spoken.”

Myrddin reached forward and took the hands of the abbess in both of his.

“Then I am contented with my destiny, mother …” he whispered in final acknowledgement. “I will spend a moment or two with Gwendoloena before I depart.”

Then, as he was about to turn away, his mouth suddenly slackened and he stared at her in horror as a new realization came to him.

“Tell me, if Cerdic was my true father then … then Cynric … ?”

She met his troubled eyes and nodded slowly in sympathy.

“Yes, my son. Cynric was your half-brother.”