Elegant she was, and graceful as the swan in flight, but she was not at all the forbidding matriarch. Her black hair gleamed; her eyes burned bright with delight as she beheld the wonder the Exalted Emrys had worked in the Fortress of Larks.
She stood before the steps and gazed at the marvelous shrine, beaming her pleasure. The others, including the Emrys and myself, waited a little away, watching her reaction. Gwenhwyvar remained a goodly time, merely looking up at the smooth curves of the monument. Then, lifting her soft-booted foot, she slowly mounted the steps and went in.
Gwenhwyvar had labored long over her wedding gift to Arthur. And endured much in the way of contempt and derision. The ignorant said that Arthur had married a maid of the bhean sidhe, and it was rumored that she employed druid enchanters to summon Otherworld beings to move the sacred stone from Ierne, and had with spells and incantations raised the stone and rendered the site invisible lest anyone stumble upon it unawares.
Pure superstition, of course. Fiery Gwenhwyvar was not of the Hill Folk, nor was she a Pict. She was Irish, though proud as any Fair Folk maid; she could also command a warband with the skill of the best of Arthur’s captains.
Some of the stone came from Ierne, it is true—but from Gwenhwyvar’s father, King Fergus mac Guillomar. The beautiful blue stone was cut from the mountains and floated across the sea in ships, then dragged by ox-drawn sledge to the site which, although hidden, was not invisible. She employed the best quarrymen, masons, and carpenters to work the stone and raise it—not druid enchanters.
In all, the queen was simply following the practice of her race; women of her rank provided for the survival of her fhain, or family clan, in life and death and beyond. Gwenhwyvar, foremost of all queens of the Island of the Mighty, meant to give Arthur a monument that would endure forever.
Thirteen years is a long time to wait for a wedding gift. It is also a long time to wait for an heir. More than a few of Arthur’s lords had begun grumbling against Gwenhwyvar because the queen had given Arthur no sons. This, they thought, was more important than any monument.
Upon completing her inspection of the shrine, she emerged triumphant. “Myrddin Emrys,” the queen said, taking his hands into her own, “I am forever beholden to you. No other in all the wide world could have accomplished this great work.” She turned and indicated the whole of the shrine with an arcing sweep of her hand. “It is all I hoped it would be.”
“Thank you,” replied Myrddin simply. “I am honored.”
With the queen had come Tegyr and Bedwyr, and a few others of her retinue, and now they began to talk excitedly, praising the Emrys for his magnificent achievement. “Arthur will be pleased,” Gwenhwyvar said. “He will love this place as I do. It will be his sanctuary. There is peace here; nothing will disturb him here ever.”
The queen referred to Arthur’s continued clashes with the lords and petty kings of the south, who worried at him constantly. If it was not one thing with them, it was another. Nothing ever made them happy—except baiting the Bear of Britain, which they considered good sport. Woe to them!
The northern kings knew better. The wars, only a minor vexation in the south, and now long forgotten, still lived in the memories of the people whose lands had been seized and families slaughtered by the barbarians. The tribes of the north revered their Pendragon, where the southern men merely tolerated him. More and more, Arthur looked upon the north as his home and he sojourned there whenever he could—but always at Eastertide and the Christ Mass.
Gradually, as the High King’s sentiments had shifted, the heart of his realm had moved away from the south as well. Wherefore, the lords of the south made greater cause against him. Petty dogs, all of them! They knew not when they were well off!
The queen did not stay at the rotunda. Having made her inspection, she was eager to return to the palace to begin ordering the celebration. Before the retinue left, the Emrys came to me. “I am going to see my mother and Avallach settled in their new home.”
I had assumed that I would stay at the shrine. Indeed, I looked upon it as my duty. But I did as I was bade, and I went with him. We reached Caer Lial at twilight, slept in the palace, and departed again early the next morning. A ship waited in the harbor to take us to the Isle of the Fisher King, the island men of the north now call Avallon, or sometimes Ynys Sheaynt, Island of Blessed Peace.
I did not know where this island might be, nor how long our voyage would last. I did not care. For with the sunrise on the sparkling water, my dread left me and all I could think was that I was on my way to meet the mysterious Fisher King and his renowned daughter. I had never seen Fair Folk—save the Emrys, if he was one—and anticipation flourished in me. The ship could not sail fast enough.
The island lies off the western coast midway between Ierne and Britain a good day’s sailing. It is the peculiar quality of this sea-girt land that it disappears from time to time. The Cymry say this is because Manannan ap Llyr, Lord of the Sea, grows jealous of this most fortunate isle and covers it with the Lengel, the Veil of Concealment, so that men will not covet it for themselves.
Avallon lies surrounded by deep blue waters, overarched by dazzling blue skies, caressed by gentle winds and weather. Fish of all types abound in its warm seas, and its broad plains bring forth grain in unmatched quantity, sheep and cattle grow fat on its hillsides. Indeed, it is a Fortunate Isle; fair in every way. Arthur had claimed this island and provided for a church and monastery to crown its unsung glory; these were to be overseen by Avallach.
Our pilot guided the ship into the cliff-bound bay, whereupon we made landfall at a stone-built dock and led our horses up the hill to the track. We then proceeded directly across the island to the western coast, passing by bright woods and dark-crested forests and wide, green, flower-speckled meadows sown through with freshets and brooks, reaching the Fair Folk settlement as the last red-flamed rays of the sun dwindled into the sea.
I saw for the first time the two tall white towers, now glowing red-gold in the setting sun, which rose from a wall-enclosed mound overlooking the sea. Inside the wall, the high-pitched roof of a goodly hall glinted like silver scales, or glass, as the slate caught the light. Sheep grazed on the stronghold mound outside the walls, their white fleece turned a rosy gold in the light, the grass shining like emeralds. A clear stream sang its glistening way around the whole as it plunged to the sea-cliffs beyond. Horses roamed at will, noses sunk in the sweet-scented grass.
The Wise Emrys shouted with joy when he beheld the shining stronghold. He opened his mouth and sang out a hymn of holy praise, and lashed his horse to a gallop so that he might enter the gates all the sooner. I followed as fast as I could, marvelling at the blessed sight before me.
In all, the place seemed to me an Otherworldly paradise, a realm of gods on earth. I was confirmed in this observation when we rode through the narrow, high-arched gates and glimpsed the Fair Folk themselves moving about their tasks—much remained to be done before the fortress would be fully settled.
Tall and many-favored, they are a handsome race. Fair to look upon, graceful, straight-limbed, firm of flesh, the elder race is greatly to be admired. The Creator’s glory is much manifest in them. Yet for all their comeliness and favor they are a melancholy people; their time is not long in this worlds-realm, and they regret it bitterly.
We were met by Fair Folk who recognized the Emrys and called him by name as they ran to hold our horses. “Merlin! Summon the king! Merlin is here!”
Avallach greeted us as we dismounted. A dark mane of curly hair, quick dark eyes, and a dark beard coiled in the manner of eastern kings gave him an ominous, threatening aspect, which his deep, thundering voice did not altogether dispel. The Seneschal of Britain is a big man, and Myrddin is not small, but the Fisher King stood head and shoulders above both. For all this, he was not awkward or slow in his movements as men of such size often are; the innate grace of his kind was in him. Nevertheless, as he strode toward us I marvelled that the earth did not shak
e beneath his feet.
The king’s dark eyes glinted, and white teeth flashed a smile in his dark beard. “Merlin, I give you good greeting! Welcome home.”
The Emrys embraced the king and then stood off to view the stronghold. “It is not the palace on the Tor,” he said. I thought I heard a note of sadness in his voice.
“No,” agreed Avallach, “it is not. Ah, but I was growing weary with the Glass Isle. The good brothers were happy to have the palace and will make excellent use of it—a scriptorium, I believe, and a larger hospice. The sick make pilgrimage to Shrine Hill in ever-increasing numbers. They will find it a peaceful place.” He paused and lifted a hand to the gleaming palace. “But come, Merlin. My hall has not yet been baptized with song—and now that you are here, that oversight can be corrected. Come, we will lift the guest cup.”
“I would enjoy nothing more,” the Emrys said, “but I must greet my mother first.”
“Of course!” cried Avallach. “She is in the grove, directing the planting. Go to her and bring her back. I will await you in the hall. Go!” The Fisher King waved us away.
We hurried from the yard, passed through the gates, and made our way along the wall to the west side facing the sea. There on the sunny slopes above the sheer cliffs, the Lady of the Lake had established her apple grove. The trees were sprigs and saplings brought from the Tor, and she knelt at one of them, pressing the earth around its roots with her hands.
At our approach she raised her head, saw her son, and smiled. My heart soared. She seemed an earthly goddess such as the Learned Brotherhood revere in their ancient songs. But the derwydd speak in ignorance, for the flesh-and-bone reality far surpasses their bloodless ideal.
She rose to her feet and, brushing dirt from her mantle and her hands, walked quickly toward us. I could not move or look away. All my life I had heard of the Lady of the Lake, and seeing her, knew the utter worthlessness of words justly to describe what lies beyond their scan. Hair like sunlight on flax, eyes green as forest glades, skin as soft and white as…it was hopeless.
“My mother, Charis,” the Emrys was saying. I came to myself with a start, realizing I had been transfixed by the Lady of the Lake’s astonishing beauty.
“I—I am your servant,” I stammered, and blanched at my ineptitude.
Charis honored me with a smile. She linked arms with her son, and they began walking back to the yard together. I was happily, and gratefully, forgotten in their reunion. I was more than content to follow on behind. Fragments of their conversation drifted back to me, and I listened.
“…sorry to leave the Tor,” Charis said, “but it is for the best….”
“…difficult, I know…much closer…be together more often now…”
“…a blessed place. We will be happy here…the Tor…too many…Avallach could not abide it…so much has changed…”
We reached the gates; Charis halted and embraced her son, holding him for a long moment. “I am glad you have come; I could not be happier. Arthur has been so good to us. We will do all to repay his trust and generosity.”
“There is no need. I have told you, the High King views Avallach as an ally, and needs a strong hand to hold this island. It is an ancient and holy place—there should be a church here. With you and grandfather here there will be a church and more: a monastery, a llyfrwy for your books, a hospice for the sick. Your work will flourish here.”
The Lady of the Lake kissed her son, and they walked through the gates. We crossed the yard and entered the king’s hall to be greeted with rich cups of silver filled with sweet golden mead. I was offered to drink as well, and did so, but it might have been muddy water in my cup, for all I noticed. The hall of the Fisher King stole away my thirst.
High-vaulted in roof and many pillared, the structure could have held three hundred warriors at table with room for the bards, priests, stewards, serving boys, dogs, and all the retinue that went with them. At one end of the long room lay an enormous hearth, at the other a screen of gold-painted ox-hide with the king’s chambers beyond. The floor was of white cut stone, covered with fresh rushes; the pillars were timber, stripped, bound together and carved in upward spiralling grooves.
The king had ordered chairs to be set up, but we did not sit. Instead, we stood sipping the mead and talking—rather, they talked; I simply stared about me at the hall. Hearth and pillars, tesselated floor, and high-pitched roof—it was unlike any I had ever seen. What I saw, of course, was Fair Folk craft blended with the lively artistry of the Celt.
Later, after our evening meal, the Great Emrys sang in the hall of the Fisher King for his mother and all gathered there. He sang The Dream of Rhonabwy, a tale I did not know and had never heard before. Both beautiful and disturbing, I believe it was a true tale, but its truth had not yet taken place in the world of men; much of the song’s meaning had to do with future things, I think. Though the High King was not directly mentioned, Arthur was several times implied.
This is what Myrddin sang:
In the first days of Ynys Prydein, when the dew of creation was still fresh on the earth, Mannawyddan ap Llyr ruled in the Island of the Mighty, and this is the way of it.
Mannawyddan, firstborn of Mighty Llyr, lived long and attained great renown through deeds of courage and valor. He had a kinsman, a man of lesser worth and rank, and this cousin, Medyr, became chafed and annoyed seeing the glory his kinsman enjoyed while he himself had nothing. So up he jumps one shining morning and calls to his tribesmen. “Lleu knows I am sick of this,” he said. “All day long I am distressed, but does Mannawyddan take notice of my affliction? No, he does not. What shall we do about such a state of affairs?”
The tribesmen looked at one another, but could make no answer. Medyr shook his fist at them. “Well? I am listening, but hear nothing save the four winds blowing through your heads as through empty shells.”
One of the elder tribesmen spoke up and said, “Lord Medyr, if it is advice you are wanting, we would be less than good men if we did not tell you to seek out the Black Hag of Annwfn, who knows all that passes everywhere and holds such powers of counsel as to make any man a king who heeds her.”
“At last!” cried Medyr. “Lleu knows it took you long enough. But this advice seems good to me. I will do as you say.” At once he climbed upon his horse and rode off to seek the Black Hag.
This creature lived in a mound in a birchwood copse near a river. When Medyr found her, he summoned her from her dank lair. Foul was her appearance; fouler still the smell which besmote poor Medyr’s nostrils. But he had determined to see the thing through, and he heeded her advice—which consisted of nothing more than that Medyr should go to Mannawyddan and demand to be taken into his care.
This he did. Mannawyddan, thinking no ill, received Medyr with good grace and honored him far above his rank by offering to make him a battlechief and head of a fair warband. Medyr agreed and was satisfied for a little time. But in the end he tired of the work and considered that he might better himself more quickly by raiding. So he rode off and began a life of plunder and pillage, burning holdings, stealing cattle, killing any who made bold to oppose him.
Mannawyddan was not the king to stand aside and see his people hurt in this way; so he called forth his best men and asked them to choose from among them the noblest and bravest who should go after Medyr and end his vile slaughter. These were the men who were chosen: Rhonabwy, Kynrig Red Freckles, and Cadwgan the Stout. Everyone agreed that if these men failed it would not be through fault of valor, courage, wiles, or skill at sword, or through any other fault—for among them they possessed none—but through dark treachery alone.
“Very well,” said Mannawyddan when they came before him, “you know what to do. I bless you and send you on your way. Go in peace and return victorious.”
The three rode out at once and the trail was not difficult to raise, for they simply followed the scorched earth where Medyr had passed. For days and days they rode, and came at last to the holding of Heilyn Long Sha
nks. As twilight was coming on they approached the house.
When they came into the yard, they saw an old black cave of a hall with smoke pouring out of it. Inside they saw a floor at once so pitted and bumpy, and so slimy with cow dung and urine, that a man could hardly stand upright without either slipping and falling down or sinking into the stinking mire. And over all was strewn holly branches and nettles which the cattle had been chewing.
Nothing daunted, they continued on and came to a chamber at the end of the hall where they found a sickly hag before a sputtering fire. When the fire guttered, the hag threw a handful of chaff into the flames, and the resulting belch of smoke brought tears to the eyes. The only other thing that was in this rude chamber was a hair-bare yellow ox-hide. Fortunate indeed was the man who slept on that!
The travellers sat down and asked the hag where the people of the holding were to be found, but she sneered at them, showing her foul teeth. Presently, a thin man, completely bald and withered, entered the hall. He was followed by a grey, stooped woman carrying a bundle of sticks. The woman threw down her bundle before the hag, who made up the fire. The grey woman then began to cook a meal, of which she gave a portion to the three strangers: hard bread and oat gruel and watery milk.
While the three ate this poor fare, a fierce rainstorm arose; the wind blew so that trees bent nearly to the ground and the rain fell sideways. Since it was useless to travel on, and since they were tired from their long journey, they decided to stay in the hall, saying, “After all, it is only for one night. Fortunate are we indeed if this is the worst thing that befalls us.”
Then they prepared to sleep. And their bed was nothing but a pile of flea-ridden straw with a tattered old greasy cloak thrown over it. Clamping their hands over their noses, they lay down. Rhonabwy’s companions fell asleep to the torments of the fleas. But after thrashing around on the filthy straw, Rhonabwy decided that neither rest nor sleep would come to him if he did not find a more comfortable place. He spied the yellow ox-hide and thought that if he did nothing else he might at least escape the fleas; so he got up and went to lie down on the ox-hide.