Arthur

I stopped. Who could it be? Few among those left behind in Caer Lial knew the location of the Round Table.

I watched as the ship drew closer – yes, it was definitely making for the shrine – and then turned and ran back to camp. Not wishing to disturb the Pendragon, I ran to the Emrys' tent. 'Emrys,' I whispered at the tent flap. He awakened at once and came out to me.

'What is it, Aneirin?'

'A ship is approaching. Come, I will show you.'

Together we hurried back to the place where I had seen the ship – just in time to see six more emerge from the mist. The first ship was already drawing towards shore. 'It is the Pendragon's fleet,' I said, observing the red dragon painted on the sails.

'I was afraid of this,' remarked the Emrys.

'What are they doing?'

'They have come for the burial ceremony.'

It was true. Thinking only to honour their dead companions, the Cymbrogi, and the assembled war hosts of Britain, had embarked in the Pendragon's ships to discover the shrine. And discover it they did. The Emrys and I watched as ship after ship came into the bay and the warriors waded to shore.

They came dressed as for battle, each with helm burnished and shield freshly painted. Their swords were newly honed, and their spearheads gleamed. They gathered on the beach and then moved silently up the hill towards us.

'What shall we do, Wise Emrys?'

'Nothing,' he replied. 'There is nothing to be done. These men have risked the Pendragon's wrath to come here. They will not be turned away, nor should they be.'

'But the shrine… '

'Well,' observed Myrddin Emrys, 'the Round Table will no more remain secret. After this day, the world will know of it. Easier to hold back the tide with one your brooms, Aneirin, than to call back a word once it has been spoken.'

As they assembled on the shore, the Emrys sent me to fetch the Pendragon. I did so and returned with Arthur, Gwenhwyvar and Bedwyr to see ten thousand warriors – all the Cymbrogi, of course, and a good few others had come to observe the funeral rites of their battlechiefs.

'God love them,' said Arthur, gazing out upon the strand, now populated with warriors drawn up in ranks and divisions, and arrayed in bright battle dress. 'Their disobedience is greater tribute than we can boast. Let them join us.'

'Very well,' replied Bedwyr, and started down the hill track to the shore.

'How did they find this place?' wondered Gwenhwyvar.

'Tegyr, I suppose,' said Myrddin, and I remembered the steward.

'Or Barinthus,' offered Arthur.

'Your pilot? He would never do such a thing,' the queen insisted. She looked upon the ordered ranks of warriors and smiled. 'I hope that I receive such homage when I go to my grave.'

'For me,' the Pendragon said, 'let there be a perpetual choir established in a church built over my tomb. I will have need of such prayers, I think.'

At these words the Emrys looked round and observed the High King closely. 'Are you ill, Arthur?'

'I am tired this morning,' he admitted. 'The battle has left its mark. It will pass.'

'Let me tend your wound.'

'A scratch,' said Arthur, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. There is nothing to see.'

But the Wise Emrys was not to be put off. 'Then I will see that as well. Open your mantle and have done with it.'

The Pendragon hesitated, but no man alive is able to resist the Emrys for long. At last Arthur gave in and drew back his cloak and pulled aside his mantle. The wound was, truly, nothing more than a long, ragged scratch, running around the base of the throat where Medraut had caught him with a wild slash of the knife.

But that scratch had festered and was now an angry red welt, visibly raised and, I imagine, very painful. The edges of the wound were tinged with green and a watery pus oozed from several places where movement had opened the gash afresh.

Gwenhwyvar gasped. 'No wonder you cried out when I touched you – it is a nasty thing.'

'It is slow healing,' Arthur allowed, pulling his cloak over his shoulder once more. 'But I have had worse.'

The Emrys shook his head. 'We will go back to camp and I will bind it properly.'

'The burial rite,' said Arthur, lifting his hand to the warriors gathered on the shore. 'We must not keep the Cymbrogi waiting.'

'After the rites then,' Myrddin told him flatly. 'I have neglected it too long already.'

Four graves were dug on the side of the hill facing west. They were dug deep and lined with white stone which the Cymbrogi gathered from the nearby hills. When the graves were ready and everyone had performed homage in the shrine, the Nine Worthies, led by the Emrys, ascended the hill and entered the tabled rotunda. After a few moments they emerged with the body of Cai, which they proceeded to carry on its bier to the grave site.

But the Cymbrogi saw this and, rushing to them, pressed close, halting the bier. Then, forming a long double line – somewhat like the battle line, the Companions passed the bier one to another, hand to hand, down the hill from the shrine to the grave. The bodies of Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad and Llenlleawg were cared for in this way as well, so that they were borne to the graves by their friends and gently laid to rest on the hillside.

Arthur and Gwenhwyvar stood at the foot of the graves and, as each body was lowered in, the queen laid a small stone cross upon the chest. The cross was of smooth, black stone on which was inscribed the dead man's name and lifeday in Latin. Beside each cross, Arthur placed a fine gold cup – from which to drink one another's health in the palace of the King of Kings in Heaven, he said.

When each body was thus laid down, the Emrys raised the lament which we all joined until the hills and valleys round about rang with the dirge-song, growing and growing to the very last when it was cut off short. This symbolized the growth through life and the sudden sharp death of those we mourned.

After the lament, the Emrys sang the psalm and prayed Jesu, Son of the Living God, to welcome the souls of the brave into his fair company. After this we each took up stones and laid them on the graves, raising the gorsedd over them. All this was done under Arthur's gaze and, when at last the burial cairns were complete, the Pendragon turned to his Wise Emrys and said, 'Emrys and Wledig, I would hear again the prayer which you have so often sung.'

Myrddin assented, raising his hands in the way of the bards of elder days when they declaimed before their kings. But instead of a eulogy, he sang this prayer:

'Great Light, Mover of all that is moving and at rest, be my Journey and my far Destination, be my Want and my Fulfilling, be my Sowing and my Reaping, be my glad Song and my stark Silence. Be my Sword and my strong Shield, be my Lantern and my dark Night, be my everlasting Strength and my piteous Weakness. Be my Greeting and my parting Prayer, be my bright Vision and my Blindness, be my Joy and my sharp Grief, be my sad Death and my sure Resurrection!'

'So be it!' we all cried. So be it!

TEN

That night we built the fires high and lifted our voices in songs and stories of remembrance. Although no wine or mead or even ale was given out in drink, the Cymbrogi gathered in amiable throngs around the fires and filled the star-dazzled night with a richness of laughter. If the spirits of the dead know anything of the world they leave behind, I believe they would have been pleased to see how well they were loved and honoured by their friends. I went to my bed earnestly wishing that the day of my own death would be so revered.

As before, I slept that night under the stars, wrapped in a red calfskin on the ground before the Pendragon's tent. I did not rest well; something kept sleep from me. During the night I heard a stirring and woke to see the Emrys standing at the embers of the nearest fire, scowling into the dying light. I rose and went to him. 'You are troubled, Wise Emrys. What is the matter?'