I watched, fascinated by this Virgin of the Forest as she entered the meadow which contained a pool fed by a clear-running spring. She walked to the pool, holding out her hands. Two men appeared among the trees; by their look and manner I understood that they were dying of thirst. The dying men saw the water and rushed to the pool.
The first man fell on his knees at the spring, dipped his hand and drank, but the water turned poisonous in his mouth and he died, clutching his throat. The second man approached the Virgin of the Forest and consulted her, at which she produced a cup and offered it to him.
Taking the bowl between his hands, the man filled the cup from the spring. He drank from the cup and his life was restored; he left rejoicing in the wisdom of the maiden.
The image changed and I saw the maiden once more, but grown: she stood with one foot on high Yr Widdfa and the other on the banks of Mor Hafren; her head touched the sky and stars glinted in her tresses. In one hand she held a forest, and in the other the cup, the marvelous cup. And as she walked across the land, the spirits of the ancient Britons awakened. And the Island of the Mighty flourished once more.
Ganieda led me from the pool. We moved farther into the cavern, descending all the while, penetrating deeper into the heart of the earth. Through cracks and crevices on either side, I glimpsed the ruddy glow of molten rock seething up from below. In the lurid light I beheld strange creatures frozen in stone—massive muscled behemoths with bony shieldplates and claws the size of scythes, their strange and ponderous bodies trapped in postures of predation or defense; menacing reptiles, their hideous flat heads bristling with spikes. I looked with dread fascination upon them, and wondered at the dire purpose of their creation.
Deeper and still deeper we went, past seams of gold spangling the walls of my Underworld palace, gleaming in the flames of subterranean fires. I beheld halls of crystal and precious stones. Turning neither right nor left, Ganieda led me through the endless halls of Annwn until at last we came to a rock ledge, where she halted.
The place proved a shore of stone, rimming a limitless underground sea which I viewed by virtue of seething patches of burning oil afloat on the surface of this Underworld ocean. We stood together overlooking the dreadful deep, where no breath of wind ever stirred, nor sea-swell billowed, nor ebb-tide flowed. It was a vast, dark water grave under a stony sky, an iron-hued firmament, solid, unchanging, inviolable.
“I must leave you now, Merlin, my heart,” she said, turning to me, her eyes full of sorrow at our parting. “Where you are going I cannot return, and where I am going you cannot enter.”
“No, Ganieda—not yet.” I reached out for her, but she stepped away.
“Even so,” my beautiful one replied, “we must part. There is nothing more I can do. If you are to live, you must go back the way you came.”
She took two steps backwards, placed her fingertips to her lips, kissed them, and raised her slender white hand to me. “Fare well, best beloved,” she said. “Remember, I will come for you one day.”
“Please, Ganieda,” I cried, grief surging up like a wave within me, “do not leave me! Please!”
“God be with you always, Merlin.”
With that she disappeared, leaving me to stand alone on the stone ridge above the underground sea. But not for long, for I began to run to the place where I had last seen Ganieda. My foot slipped on a bit of broken rock and I fell, striking my knee on the ledge with a tremendous crack.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain and when I opened them again, the darkness was gone. The luminous sky had likewise vanished, and I stood at a ship’s solid prow once more.
5
BARINTHUS BELLOWED OUT A warning, and the ship shuddered to a stop in the silt of a nearby bank. Aedd and Gwenhwyvar disembarked at once, sliding easily over the rail and wading the few paces to shore to wait while the other ships landed and the horses were brought. I watched them as if still in a dream, and then moved to join them.
As I stepped towards the rail, Llenlleawg stooped where I had been standing and retrieved a cloth-wrapped object. “Emrys,” he called after me. “Will you leave your harp behind?”
My harp? I stared at the bundle in his hands. How had that come to be there? I returned to where he stood and lifted the cloth to reveal the harp I knew full well I had left behind in Arthur’s camp.
You must go back the way you came.
Knowledge came to me in a rush like a gust of wind, and with it came certainty. Yes!
I raised my head and lifted my voice in song:
I am old;
I am forever young.
I am the True Emrys, Immortal,
Gifted of the Giving Giver
With a perceiving spirit.
I am a bard,
A Battlechief of Knowledge;
I do not vouchsafe the secrets of my craft
To unenlightened creatures.
I am a wise guide;
I am a righteous judge.
I am a king whose kingdom is unseen.
I am the servant of the Great Light;
Though blind, I will continue to see God.
All saints and angels,
All things in heaven and earth bear witness:
Word Singer, World-Singer,
Myrddin ap Taliesin am I.
Llenlleawg stared at me. “This,” I told him, raising the harp, “is the Heart of Oak. In the hands of a True Bard it burns with life-giving song, but is not consumed. This is the way I must go.”
So saying, I struck the harp with the palm of my hand and the strings gave forth a sound like a chorused shout. Sweet the sound! My heart thrilled to hear it.
May the Gifting Giver be good to you, Taliesin! May you enjoy peace and plenty in the Great King’s heavenly hall, and may you sing heartfelt praise to the Lord of Life for ever!
“Come!” I shouted. “We must hurry. Arthur is waiting and I have been away far too long.”
“But it is only a day since we left,” Llenlleawg reminded me.
“No, my friend,” I replied. “I have been away far, far longer than that. But I have returned now. Pray, Llenlleawg! Pray I am not too late!”
Impatient to be away, I mounted my horse as soon as it came ashore. “Await the other ships and follow us when all the warbands are assembled,” I instructed Aedd. “We ride before you to the British camp to tell Arthur to ready your welcome.”
We three—Llenlleawg, Gwenhwyvar, and I—rode as fast as we could, through the day and night, pausing only for water—only to find the camp all but deserted. A scant handful of warriors remained behind to guard the servants, women, and wounded. “They left before dawn,” one of them told us. “The Vandali have gathered in Glen Arwe. Five warbands—almost the entire war host.” He raised a hand to point the direction; the effort brought a wince of pain, and I noticed the arm was swollen and discolored.
“Glen Arwe?” Llenlleawg asked.
“Aye—a half day’s ride to the north,” the wounded warrior confirmed. “Just follow the sound—you cannot go wrong.”
“Aedd and the Irish lords ride behind us,” Llenlleawg told the warrior. “Send them on as soon as they arrive.”
With a snap of the reins we were off again. Tired as we were we made what speed we could, encountering no one on the way. But, as the warrior had promised, we heard the battleclash long before we came upon the conflict itself. The sound echoed along the river course—raw voices shouting, the crash and clatter of weapons, the rumbling thunder of horses’ hooves and Vandali drums—as if the massed war hosts of all the world lay just before us. Llenlleawg halted as we entered the glen. A haze of smoke and dust obscured the way ahead.
“I want to see how the battle stands,” Gwenhwyvar stated.
“We may get a better view from there.” Llenlleawg indicated a place high on the ridge overlooking the glen.
We turned aside, forded the river—now just a scant trickle along the damp earth—and climbed the hillside to the ridge-top. When we stopped aga
in the glen lay far below us in a pall of dust. Then, as we strained to see, the dry breeze gusted and the clouds parted. The battleground was revealed: a vicious swirling tangled mass of men and horses.
The British lords had joined combat with the Black Boar’s forces, and had succeeded in dividing the enemy host into three enclaves. The usual tactic would have been to continue harassing each division, cutting into smaller and smaller sections. The Vandali, however, were standing their ground and refused to be further divided.
Llenlleawg took one look. “It is not good,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Unless the enemy can be moved, and soon, Arthur might as well call off the attack; he can do nothing.”
It did appear that the assault had foundered and was, if not yet in danger of collapsing, then very close to it.
“I do not see him,” Gwenhwyvar said, scanning the churning mass below. “Do you?”
Llenlleawg looked, too, his lower lip between his teeth. “Strange,” he replied at last. “Where is Arthur?”
I gazed into the chaos, searching where the battle raged hottest, looking for the familiar sight: the whirling blur of Caledvwlch and the reckless, headlong lunging that marked Britain’s impetuous War Leader. But I could not find him.
Fear stole over me. I imagined Arthur’s body lying broken on the blood-soaked earth, life seeping from a dozen wounds as the battle surged around him. I imagined his head struck from his shoulders to adorn a Vandal spear. I imagined him hacked to pieces…
“There!”
“Arthur? Where?”
“No—not Arthur. Someone else.” Llenlleawg’s gaze narrowed as he leaned forward in the saddle. He stabbed a finger at the maelstrom below. “Cai, I think. Yes—and he is in trouble!” The Irish champion drew his spear from its place behind his saddle and prepared to join the fight. To Gwenhwyvar, he said, “Stay here—if Arthur is down there, I will find him.”
His mount leapt forward and Llenlleawg disappeared over the edge of the ridge. When I saw him again, he had reached the glen and was hurtling across the valley floor towards a place where a knot of Cymbrogi had become surrounded and separated by the main body and were in imminent danger of being overwhelmed.
I watched Llenlleawg flying into battle, scattering the foe before him, driving headlong into the fight. Some there are, no doubt, who would question the ability of a single warrior to redeem such a desperate plight. But there is no one I would rather have fly to my defense, whatever the odds. And any inclined to doubt that one sword more or less could make much difference can never have seen the Irish champion with the battle frenzy on him. I tell you the truth, no foe confronting the spectacle of Llenlleawg gripped in the awen of battle remained unpersuaded for long.
But where was Arthur?
I dismounted and crept to the edge of the overlook to better search the heaving mass below. The battlesound rose up like the roar of an ocean gale, the men rushing, hurling themselves into the clash like seawaves breaking against one another. Most of the Britons were mounted, but the superior numbers of Vandali and the closeness of the glen had lessened any advantage the horses provided. This, perhaps, was why the attack had been repulsed and was now in danger of disintegrating altogether.
Gazing down into the melée, I picked out Cai, at the forefront of his warband, sword whirling, trying to hack a way through the mass before him. He was attempting to reunite his force with the one nearest to him, but the enemy so securely choked the gap that far from cutting a path through, it was all he could do to keep from being swept farther away.
Bedwyr, I think, led those nearest Cai, but he was hard-pressed to prevent his warband from becoming surrounded. Cador—or Cadwallo, perhaps, I could not be certain—was being forced, step-by-grudging-step, farther from the other two. In this way, the Vandal, moving fluid-like in and around the mounted Cymbrogi, surging into the empty places, filling them, surrounding, inundating, flowing on, were slowly reversing the tide of battle.
Where was Arthur?
“Look!” shouted Gwenhwyvar behind me. “Cador is in trouble!” Following Llenlleawg’s lead, she spurred her horse forward, plunging down the hillside to join the battle. There was no stopping her; I did not even try.
The Vandali made best use of their numbers and the pinched confines of the glen to blunt the attack of the Britons, halt it, and turn it back. It now appeared Britain’s battlechiefs had a rout on their hands. Something would have to be done, and soon, if the Britons were to escape a cruel beating.
Where was Arthur?
I gazed from one end of the plain to the other, but could see no sign of him. Where could he be? What if he had fallen in battle? I dismissed the idea at once—if he had been cut down I would have seen some sign of it by now. Indeed, the British attack doubtless would have collapsed around him. No, I consoled myself, I did not see him because he was not there.
Llenlleawg had reached the beleaguered Cai and took his place in the forerank of the fight. His sudden, almost miraculous, appearance greatly encouraged the flagging Cymbrogi and they fought with renewed vigor to extricate themselves from their dire predicament.
Following Llenlleawg’s lead they succeeded in cutting through the enemy wall between them and Bedwyr’s warband, and wasted no time in reuniting the two forces. This tactic proved of only limited value, however, for as the two warbands merged, the barbarians swarmed into the gap, surrounding them both. Now, instead of two half-enclosed warbands, there was one fully encircled.
Arthur! Where are you? The battle is lost and the Bear of Britain is nowhere to be found. What has happened to him?
The Black Boar, no doubt astonished at finding himself within a spear-throw of an assured victory, cast off all restraint. I saw the Boar standard waving in a frenzy, and the drums quickened, booming like angry, insistent thunder. At once the mass of Vandali foot men thickened, drew together, then hurled itself against the British host.
Gwenhwyvar had reached the fight and quickly gathered a force around her. Despite her best efforts, they were kept on the outside; try as they might, they could not find a way to break through, and were reduced to harrying the rearward ranks—which they did with great, if ineffective, zeal, while the main battle took place elsewhere.
Sensing their dilemma, the mounted British stiffened and defied the encircling pressure. Bedwyr seemed to understand what was happening and attempted a counterattack, driving into the wall of foemen, thrusting, forcing, hacking his way forward by the strength of his blade alone. A wedge of horsemen formed behind him, desperately trying to cut a swath to the surrounded Cymbrogi.
Step-by-bloody-step they advanced. Fierce the fight, savage the resistance; the enemy gave ground with life-grudging reluctance. I saw men staggering under the weight of their shields, struggling to fend off the blows of the foe with broken weapons. I saw men pulled from their mounts even as they struck down their adversaries; I saw men falling beneath the hooves of the horses, shrieking men suddenly lacking limbs.
Bedwyr was now within two spears’ lengths of rescuing the surrounded Cymbrogi. They were so close! One more push, one last strike, would break the enemy line. Bedwyr saw it, too; he raised himself in the saddle, lofted his sword and exhorted his warriors to the task.
And the Cymbrogi responded. They lowered their heads and drove in over the bodies of the fallen.
Alas! The enemy also saw the line bending inward as if to break. One of Twrch Trwyth’s chieftains appeared and, with breathtaking bravery, threw himself against the buckling line. Leaping, whirling, he matched Bedwyr stroke for stroke and halted him. The faltering Vandali took heart and rallied behind their wild leader. They rose up with a shout, surging like a seawave to overwhelm the British.
Bedwyr was thrown back. Within the space of three heartbeats his gallant effort was undone.
I gazed across the churning turmoil as across a bubbling caldron. Everywhere it was the same. The British were being surrounded and forced back, giving over hard-won ground…falling…failing.
> The smoke and dust drifted up and up, casting a filthy veil over the sun. The cries of men and horses, the sharp crack of wood and bone, the stinging ring of metal on metal ascended to the dead white sky. My hand clenched as if holding a sword, and I felt the tug of battle in my blood.
Turning at once to my horse, I mounted, and retrieved my sword from its place behind the saddle. I made to draw the weapon, but could not pull it from the sheath. Though I drew mightily, I simply could not free it.
I sat for a moment, mystified. And then my eye fell upon my rowan staff, tucked securely in its place, under the saddle. I am the Bard of Britain, I thought. What need have I of a sword?
Drawing out the staff, I lofted the rowan and raised it over the battlefield, in the age-old motion of a bard upholding his people in the fight. And as I did so, I heard the words of Taliesin from my vision: you must go back the way you came.
Understanding burst within me, dazzling like the fall of lightning from a clear sky. Gripping the staff with all my strength—as if the meaning of my vision might elude me once again if I let go—I sat upon my red horse in a wonder of illumination, my thoughts reeling. Yes! Yes! This…this is the way I must go. Not by the sword, but by the rowan!
I dismounted and carried the staff to the cliffside and there I knelt, clutching the rowan rod to me as if it were salvation itself. Gazing down upon the battle, my spirit writhed within me. I saw death as a gray vapor stealing over the plain, and a putrid, sickening smell rose up to sting my nostrils. The vapors mingled with the stench and spread out over the plain and beyond, to poison all Britain. It was the plague and war combined with the fear and ignorance of terrified men. It was the stink of corruption hovering over Britain.