Arthur

I turned to find the Emrys already striding up the hill. I ran after him. 'What would you have me do, lord?'

Without stopping or turning round, he called back, 'Do you know how to make a broom?'

I had never made one, but I had seen it done often enough by the women at Trath Gwryd. 'I think so,' I answered.

'Then make one!' the Emrys said, and continued on. I spent the rest of the day gathering the various twigs and sticks I would need, and then set about trying to build the thing. I did not presume to enter the rotunda, or even to go near it. I went about my task and kept to myself.

At dusk the Emrys emerged and called me to him. 'Are you hungry, Aneirin ap Caw?' the Emrys asked when I had climbed the gentle slope to the top of the hill. He pointed to his feet and I saw that a bundle lay before him upon the steps of the shrine. The Emrys sat down and unwrapped the rags made of dried and woven grass. Inside was new cheese and tough black bread, and a small joint of cold roast mutton. "This is brought to me by the people hereabouts.'

'There are people?' Well I might ask. I had seen no sign of any holding or habitation since leaving the king's city. And except for the labourers' tents, I saw no place where men might dwell.

'Hill Folk,' he replied, and touched the tip of a finger to the faded blucfhain mark tattooed on his cheek. 'I once was one of them.'

The Emrys of Britain broke the bread in his hands and handed me half the loaf. 'Come, take it, eat. You will not taste better."

Hill Folk food! I had heard all about the bhean sidhe, of course – as who would not, growing up in the northern hills? But I had never seen one of these mysterious creatures, nor did I know anyone who had. They might as well be Otherworld beings for all we knew of them. Many reasonable men doubted their existence altogether.

I stared at the dense, black loaf in my hand. It was bread, to be sure, but it smelled of fennel and other herbs I could not name. 'Eat, boy!' the Emrys told me. 'You cannot work if you do not eat – and I mean you to work.'

Lifting a corner of the loaf to my mouth, I bit off a chunk and chewed. The Emrys spoke truly; the bread was good; I had never tasted better and told him so.

The Emrys sat down on the step but, since he did not bid me join him, I stood to eat my meal. I fell at once to gazing out onto the sea to the west, and southward to the pale green hills across the bay. The breeze off the sea was cool. Lark song showered down from the clear blue sky, and I tilted my head back, shading my eyes with my hands and squinting into the airy void. I could scarce see the larks, so high did they fly.

'Fort of the Larks,' said the Emrys. That is what this place was called. Long have the larks enjoyed the use of it. Now it belongs to Arthur.'

It was his voice that fascinated me. Infinitely expressive, it served him in any manner he wished. When he lashed, it could have raised welts on a stone. When he soothed, it could have shamed nightingales into silence. And when he commanded, mountains and valleys exchanged places.

After we finished our meal, he took me inside the rotunda, which was even more remarkable than its exterior. For, rather than the cold, dark, cave-like appearance I expected, the interior was open, airy and light. The domed roof remained open to die sky, providing ample light to pour down gently curving sides of dressed white stone.

The Great Emrys spread his arms and turned slowly, indicating the perfect circularity of the shrine. 'This,' he said as he revolved, 'this is the Omphalos of Britain.'

As I remained silent, he asked, 'Have you never heard that word before?'

'No, Lord Emrys, I have not.'

'It is the sacred centre. All things have a centre – for the Kingdom of Summer, the centre is here.'

I pondered this for a moment. 'I thought – ' I began, 'that is, I heard that Ynys Avallach held that prominence.'

The Glass Isle? No,' he shook his head, 'I know what men say of the Tor, but that belongs to another… '

Another what, he did not say. 'Besides,' he continued briskly, 'the Fisher King is not long there. There are too many people nearby – the south is becoming too crowded. I have prevailed upon Avallach and my mother to establish themselves in the north.'

I knew of the Fisher King, and Charis, the Lady of the Lake, next to Gwenhwyvar reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Britain. 'They are coming here?'

'Not here, but near. There is an island where Arthur has granted them lands,' he told me.

I slept that night in one of the workers' tents; the Emrys slept in the rotunda. In the morning I awoke, took my broom and went up to him. He greeted me and bade me enter.

Hesitantly, I stepped up to the entrance and glanced around the inside of the shrine. In the centre, beneath the all-seeing eye of the open dome, sat an immense stone chair, or throne, carved of a single slab of living rock and placed on its own raised table of stone. The curved inner walls were ledged with a series of ringed stones, hundreds of them, each one forming a small niche of its own. It seemed to me much like the bone-houses of elder times with their skull nooks – crevices carved out of stone to hold the severed heads of venerated ancestors.

All appeared finished, the white stone gleaming. 'What would you have me do, Lord Emrys?'

'Sweep,' he told me. The Emrys turned to a table, unwrapped a leather pouch that lay there, and withdrew tools: an iron hammer, a chisel, and a scribe for marking stone. He took up the hammer and turned once more to the nearest stone ledge and began inscribing letters on the smooth face.

'A name, Lord Emrys?'

'The names of those who have attained the Round Table will be recorded here,' he explained. 'Those who have distinguished themselves in the service of the Summer Realm will have their names cut in the stone. When death finds them, that will be recorded too, and their bodies buried within the sacred precinct, so that their renown will not pass out of this worlds-realm.'

Understanding came to me at last. The tabled rotunda was to be a place of spiritual refuge, a haven of tranquillity dedicated to the Prince of Peace, a reliquary of great holiness and honour, where the names and arms of great men could be venerated, a memorial to deeds of courage and valour.

Thus, I entered my servitude. I swept, carried water, gathered firewood, tended the camp and, when I was not otherwise occupied, washed the stone – time and again I washed it. When I finished, I swept the interior of the rotunda and washed it again. I scrubbed it till the stone gleamed.

Daily the food came. Sometimes in the morning, when we rose, I would go down to the stream below the hill and fetch it from the hollow bole of a willow. Other times we would emerge from the shrine, hungry from our work, to find the wcven-grass bundle on the topmost step. Never did I see those who left it, nor could I guess whence they came.

Day by day, the names were chiselled into stone. Some of the names I recognized, most I did not. Sometimes the Emrys would tell me about the man whose name he etched. More often, we worked in silence. But it was never a lonely silence. I knew the Emrys' thoughts were full, as were my own. Just being near him proved instructive and edifying. Still, I liked it best when he sang.

After a while, I little noted the passing of the days. My hands grew strong and tough. My life was a steady-beaten rhythm of work and rest. I desired nothing more. When one day I heard a call outside, I actually resented the interruption, although I had seen no other human being besides the Emrys since the day I arrived.

The Emrys laid aside his square and scribe. That is Tegyr with a message. Let us see what he brings us.'

It seemed an intrusion, but I reluctantly put down my broom and followed him out. Tegyr was there at the foot of the hill, and someone else with him: a warrior, I could tell by the size of him. One of Arthur's captains, I guessed. He was dark, with deep-set eyes and a high, handsome brow. There were scars on his arms and hands, and on his left cheek.