From the moment Gwenhwyvar set eyes on Arthur, she had chosen him for her mate. That is the way it is done among Ierne’s royalty. For the sovereignty of the Eireann Island race runs through its women. That is to say, a man derives his kingship through his wife. Among the Children of Danna, kings enjoy their season, but the queen is queen forever.
And Arthur, innocent of the significance, made no complaint. Why would he? She was beautiful: hair black as a raven’s breast, plaited in hundreds of tiny braids, each one bound with a golden thread and gathered to fall around her shoulders and neck—blackest jet against pale white skin. Her eyes were gray as mountain mist; her brow was high and smooth, and her lips cherry red.
Never forget she was a warrior queen. She carried a spear, a sword, and a small round shield of bronze; her fair form she clothed in silver mail, of rings so small and bright they rippled like water when she moved. And Llwch Llenlleawg, her champion and battlechief, served Arthur well and took his rightful place among the Cymbrogi; but the tall Irishman was the queen’s guardian first, last, and always.
It was true that the kings and lords of Britain would never have tolerated a High King whose wife was not a Briton born. But Gwenhwyvar, shrewd and subtle, had already triumphed. Before anyone knew it had begun, the contest was over. She simply waited until Arthur had claimed the kingship; then she claimed him. True, she waited not one moment longer than necessary lest any rival enjoy even the slightest chance. On the day that Arthur took the crown for the second time, that day was Arthur also wed.
We stayed in Londinium six days in all—feasting the kings and lords who had come to pay homage and tribute to the new High King. The feast became Arthur and Gwenhwyvar’s marriage repast as well, and no one enjoyed the celebration more than Fergus of Ierne, Gwenhwyvar’s father. I do not think I ever knew a happier man.
Arthur was pleased, as well he might be. He admired Gwenhwyvar for her boldness, and stood in awe—almost everyone did—of her beauty. Still, he did not love her. At least, not yet. That would come; in time they would learn a love which bards would celebrate a thousand years hence. But, as is so often the way with two such strong-willed mates, their first days of marriage chafed them both.
When the last lord had departed to his hearth, we also departed: the Cymbrogi with Cador and Bors to Caer Melyn, and the rest of us, Cai, Bedwyr, Llenlleawg, myself and Arthur, to Ierne with Gwenhwyvar. It is a short voyage and the weather stayed fair.
I remembered Ierne as a green gem set in a silver sea. It is a shallow bowl of an island, lacking Prydein’s rough crags; what hills Ierne boasts are gentle and wooded, and its few mountains are not high. Expansive and numerous are its plains, which grow good grain in plenty. If the island’s contentious kings ever stopped slaughtering one another, they might find themselves possessing grain-wealth enough to attract trade from the east for the upbuilding of their people.
It is a damp land, alas, suffering almost continual inundation by both sea and sky. Even so, the rain is soft, filling the rivers and streams with sweet water. The ale of the Irish is surprisingly good, for all they make it with scorched grain—yet another mystery concerning this baffling race.
We sailed into a bay on the northeastern coast. I heard a loud whoop, and Cai, standing beside me at the rail, said, “It is Fergus, bless him. He is wading out to welcome us.” Even as he spoke I heard the splash of someone striding through the tidewash.
Fergus shouted something which I did not catch, and a moment later, a strange, shrill wail sounded from the beach. “What is happening, Cai?”
“Fergus’ bards, I think. He has his retinue with him, and the bards are making a sort of music for us with pig bladders.” He paused. “Most peculiar.”
I had encountered the instrument before: an odd conflux of pipes which in their hands produce a laudable variety of sounds: now crooning, now crying, now piercing as a scream, now sighing and low. When played with the harp, which they often did, this piping made a most enjoyable music. And the voices of Eire’s bards are almost as good as those of the Cymry.
Many among the Learned Brotherhood hold that the men of Green Ierne and the black hills of Prydein were brothers before Manawyddan’s waters divided them. Perhaps that is the way of it. The people are dark, for the most part, like the mountain Cymry, and they are keen-witted and as ready for laughter as a fight. Like the Celts of elder times, they are generous in all things, especially song and celebration. They love dancing, and think themselves ill-treated if they are not allowed to move their feet when their filidh play the harp and pipe.
Fergus was lord of a small realm on the northern coast in Dal Riata; his principal stronghold was called Muirbolc after one of his noble kinsmen. His hall and holding, as Cai described it to me, was fashioned on the old style: a number of small round houses—dwellings, grain stores, craftsmen’s huts, cookhouses—surrounded a great timber hall with a high-pitched roof of thatch. An earthen wall topped by a palisade of sharpened timber had been flung around the whole. Beyond the wall were fields and cattle pens, and forest.
Inside the hall, which served as the king’s house as well as the gathering place for all his folk, the great stone hearth blazed both day and night. Along the walls on either side of the hearth were booths with wicker-work walls where people could rest or withdraw more privately, and at the head of the hearth stood an enormous table, the king’s table, fixed to the rooftrees on either side.
Fergus led us to his stronghold and stood before the gate. “You are welcome in Fergus’ dwelling, my friends. Enter and take your ease. Let your cares be as the mist that melts at morning’s touch. Come, let us eat and drink, and celebrate the union of our noble tribes together.”
He greatly prized the marriage of his daughter and regarded Arthur as both kinsman and dearest friend. Never have I seen a lord so desirous of pleasing his guests as Fergus mac Guillomar. His good humor never flagged, and bounty, such as he could command, flowed from him like the waters of the silver Siannon. Fergus’ fortunes, while still scant, had nevertheless improved since allying himself with Arthur. He possessed a fine herd of horses, and bred hounds second to none. He gave gifts to us all, and to Arthur he also gave a hound pup, which would be trained to battle and the hunt.
Fergus’ daughter, too, was desirous of securing our good favor. Gwenhwyvar had brought Arthur to Muirbolc to deliver her dower to him, and a most unusual gift it was. But before I tell of it, I must first tell of the miracle that took place while we sojourned in Eire.
There were priests in the region who constantly sought to persuade Fergus to grant them lands on which to build a church and community for themselves. They also wished the king to join the Christianogi, of course, though they would settle for land.
Fergus did not trust them. He had got it into his head that once a king bent the knee to the Lord Christ, he became impotent. As Fergus was a man who greatly enjoyed the company of beautiful women, of which his realm abounded, it was a difficult thing for him to look favorably on any belief which threatened his pleasure.
“That is absurd,” I told him, upon discovering the source of his reluctance. “Do not the priests take wives like other men? I tell you they do—and children are born to them. Their faith does not make them less potent than other men, God knows. You have swallowed a lie, Fergus.”
“Oh, I am certain these priests are excellent in every way. I hold no enmity for them,” he agreed lightly. “But why tempt calamity? I am happy—never more so than now that my daughter is wed to the High King of Britain.”
“But Arthur himself is beholden to Christ,” Bedwyr informed him, joining the discussion. “Faith has not made him impotent. Look at the two of them together—reclining together in their nook, drinking from the same cup. Ask Arthur if his faith has stolen his manhood. Better yet, ask Gwenhwyvar; she will tell you.”
“It is the way of the Britons,” the Irish King allowed, “to hold strange gods and stranger practices. We all know this. But it is not our way.”
> “It is the way of many of your kinsmen, Fergus,” I countered. “Many now embrace the Lord Christ who formerly held to Crom Cruach. I ask you again, where is the harm?”
“Well,” Fergus said, “they have grown accustomed to it, I expect, and it does them no harm. But I am not so accustomed. I fear it would go ill with me.”
Nothing anyone could say would convince him. But, several days later, a group of monks arrived and sought audience with the king. As always, Fergus welcomed them and gave them gifts of food and drink—for they would not accept his gold. Curious, I went to the hall to hear their appeal.
The leader of this group of wandering brothers was a priest named Ciaran. Though yet a young man he was already strong in the faith and very wise. Learned in Greek and Latin, articulate and well-spoken, his renown was such that many fellow monks, both British and Irish, had pledged themselves to his service to aid him in his work among the heathen clans of Eire.
“We heard that the great War Leader of the Britons is here,” Ciaran declared. “We have come to pay homage to him.”
This impressed and pleased Arthur. He did not imagine that his name was known outside Britain.
“You are welcome at my hearth,” Fergus told the priest. “For Arthur’s sake, I give you good greeting.”
“May Heaven’s King richly bless you, Fergus,” Ciaran replied. “And may the High King of Heaven honor his High King on Earth. I give you good greeting, Arthur ap Aurelius.”
Arthur thanked the priest for his blessing, whereupon Ciaran addressed himself to me. “And you are surely the Wise Emrys of whom so many wonderful tales are told.”
“I am Myrddin,” I answered simply. “And I stand ready to serve you, brother priest.”
“I do thank you, Wise Emrys,” he replied. “This day, however, it is for me to serve you.” I sensed movement before me as he stepped closer. “We heard that you were blind, and now I see for myself that this is so.”
“It is but a minor annoyance,” I answered. “I am content.”
“A man of your eminence would bear any hardship lightly, and I expected no less,” observed Ciaran, and those with him murmured approvingly. “Perhaps it is as our Lord Jesu has said: ‘This affliction has been given so that the glory of the Father may be revealed.’ If that is the way of it, then perhaps I may be the instrument of that unveiling. Will you allow me?”
The hall hushed to hear what I would say. The audacious priest was offering to heal me. Well, what could I say? I had been telling Fergus of the power of the Risen One. If I refused Ciaran’s gentle challenge, then I would be shown a liar. If, on the other hand, I accepted his offer and he failed, I would be shown a fool.
Better a fool than a liar, I thought, and answered, “As for myself, I am content. But if the Ancient of Days desires my healing for his benefit, I stand ready to oblige.”
“Then so be it.”
Stepping close, Ciaran unwound the bandage and raised his hands before me; I could feel the heat from his palms on my skin, as if I had raised my face to the sun.
“God of Creation,” the priest said, “I call upon your Divine Spirit to honor your name and demonstrate your power before unbelieving men.”
So saying, Ciaran touched my eyes, and the heat of his hands flowed out from his fingertips. It felt as if my eyes were bathed in burning white light. There was some discomfort—a little pain, but mostly surprise—and I flinched away. But Ciaran held me, his fingers pressing into my eyes. The unnatural heat increased, burning into my flesh.
It felt as if my eyes were on fire; I squeezed them shut and clenched my teeth to keep from crying out. Ciaran took his hands away then and said, “Open your eyes!”
Blinking away the tears, I saw a throng of people looking at me in blank astonishment, their faces glowing like small, hazy suns. Arthur gazed at me in wonder. “Myrddin? Are you well?” he asked. “Can you see me?”
I raised my hands before my face. They shimmered and shone like firebrands, each finger a tongue of flame. “I see you, Arthur,” I answered, looking at him. “I am healed.”
This happy event caused a tremendous sensation in Fergus’ house; they talked of nothing else for days. Even Bedwyr and Cai, who had seen wonders enough in their time with me, confessed amazement. Blindness is a wearisome nuisance, and I was greatly relieved to be quit of it. I felt suddenly lighter, as if I had shed a weighty and unwieldy burden. The hazy glow gradually faded and my sight became keen once more. My heart soared.
“But what if you had not been healed?” Bedwyr asked me later. “What if this priest had failed?”
“My only worry,” I told him, “was what doubters like Fergus would think if I refused. Since I could do nothing about the healing in any event, I agreed.”
“But did you doubt?” he persisted. He meant no disrespect; he genuinely wanted to know.
Did I doubt? No, I did not. “Hear me, Bedwyr,” I told him. “I believed the One who made men’s eyes could restore my sight. After all, is that any more difficult than filling Ector’s ale vats? A miracle is a miracle. Even so, I have lived long enough in the Great King’s care to know that whether I am blind as a bump or own the eyes of an eagle is a matter of such small regard it does not bear thinking about, much less worrying over.”
In truth, I was powerfully grateful to have my sight returned to me. Yet, lest men think that I cared only for the Gifting God in what I could get from him, I kept my joy to myself. Fergus, however, was much excited by this show of power. He took it as a sign of great import and significance that this wonder should have taken place beneath his roof.
He leaped from his chair and seized Ciaran by the arms. “Earth and sky bear witness, you are a holy man, and the god you serve is a remarkable god. From this day you shall have all that you ask of me—even to the half of my kingdom.”
“Fergus mac Guillomar mac Eirc,” replied Ciaran, “I will not take one thing from you unless you give your heart into the bargain.”
“Tell me what I must do,” Fergus answered, “and be assured the sun will not set before it is accomplished.”
“Only this,” the priest answered. “Swear fealty to the High King of Heaven, and take him for your lord.”
That very day Fergus pledged life and faith to the True God, and all the members of his clan with him. They embraced their new faith with much devotion and even more zeal. Fergus granted the good brothers leave to sojourn in his realm. He charged them also with the teaching of his household.
The king’s bards were far from pleased with this development. They grumbled against the king’s new allegiance. But when I related what Taliesin had told Hafgan about the faith of Christ, they allowed themselves to be persuaded. “It need not mean the end for you,” I assured them. “If you, who seek the truth of all things, would embrace a higher truth, you will find your rank is not diminished, but increased. A new day is dawning in the west; the old ways are passing, as you must know. The man who will not bend the knee to Christ will find his place given to another.”
Gwenhwyvar, who had learned the faith from Charis during her sojourn in Ynys Avallach, praised her father’s courage. Fergus embraced his daughter. “It is not courage, my soul,” he said. “It is simple prudence. For if I did not acknowledge what I have seen this day, then I would be more blind than Myrddin ever was.”
“I would that more British kings displayed such prudence,” observed Arthur.
In all, we spent a fine time with Fergus and his people. No doubt we might have stayed with them a goodly while, but as the days passed, Arthur began looking more and more across the sea towards Britain. I knew he was thinking of his Cymbrogi and the day of leaving was close at hand. One night as we sat at the hearth with our long flesh-forks in our hands, spearing tender morsels of savory pork from the caldron while the bards sang, Gwenhwyvar approached with a bundle in her arms. The bundle was wrapped in soft leather bound with cords. She held it as if it were a child, and I thought at first that it was.
“Husban
d,” she said, cradling the bundle, “in respect of our marriage, I would bestow a gift.” She advanced to where he sat. Arthur lay aside his fork and stood, watching her intently, holding her with his eyes as he would clasp her in his arms.
Extending the leather bundle to him, Gwenhwyvar placed it in his hands and then proceeded to loose the bindings. Layer upon layer of leather fell away to reveal a vellum scroll. I had heard of such before; they had been common in the days when the Eagles ruled in Britain. But I had never before seen one.
Arthur regarded the object with bemused pleasure. So far was it from anything he might have expected, he did not know what to make of it. He looked to his wife for explanation and wisely held his tongue. Bedwyr and Cai exchanged bewildered glances, and Fergus beamed with magnanimous pride.
Taking the scroll, Gwenhwyvar carefully unrolled it. I could tell by the way she touched it—gently and with utmost reverence—that it was of immense age and priceless in her eyes. This intrigued me. What written there could be so valuable?
She spread the scroll before Arthur’s eyes, and he bent his head over it. I watched his face intently, but his bewilderment did not abate—if anything, it increased. Indeed, the more he studied the scroll, the more perplexed he became.
Gwenhwyvar watched him with a wary, yet knowing air. Gray eyes alert, dark brows slightly arched, she was waiting for his reaction, and testing him by it. Was he worthy of this gift? She was thinking, was Arthur the man she took him to be? Was the gift of her life entrusted to one who could respect its value?
And Arthur, bless him, knew himself entangled in a decisive trial. He studied the scroll for a time, and then raising his head, smiled confidently and cried, “Come here, Myrddin, and behold! See what my queen has given me!”
It was a canny remark. Gwenhwyvar was well pleased, for she heard in it what she wanted to hear. And Arthur, seeing her reaction to his words, beamed his pleasure, for he had extricated himself most shrewdly. Fergus smiled happily, knowing the treasure of his tribe had found a worthy protector. Only I was unhappy now, for Arthur had cleverly shifted the burden to my shoulders; it depended on me to appraise the gift and offer an opinion of its value.