The sound of their laughter and cheering drifted up the hillside to the Pendragon, who awakened and called out. I hurried back to the tent to see if I was needed. No one was about, so I opened the tent flap and peered in.
The Pendragon stood in the centre of the tent, clutching the tent pole. 'Forgive me, Pendragon,' I said, 'I did not mean to intrude.'
He released the tent pole at once. 'Ah, Aneirin,' he said, his voice husky and low. 'I am thirsty.'
'I will bring the Emrys.'
'Let him rest. Bedwyr, Gwenhwyvar – let them rest. Just bring water.'
'Yes, lord,' I said, and ducked out at once. A water jar sat beside the entrance, so I grabbed it and ran down to the stream to fill it with fresh water. I plunged the mouth of the jar into the swift-running stream, then turned and raced back up the hill.
Arthur stood outside the tent, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight as he gazed around the camp. I brought the jar and gave it to him. He lifted it to his lips and drank at once, without waiting for a cup. Thank you, Aneirin,' he said, 'I am much refreshed.' He straightened his cloak over his shoulder and, taking up his spear, Rhon, which was standing in the ground before the tent, he began to walk down the hill towards the valley where the Cymbrogi sported.
I followed, and fell in beside him. We came to the stream and started across it. One of the warriors at the edge of the field saw our approach and called out. 'The Pendragon!' he cried. 'The Pendragon comes! Hail, Pendragon!'
Immediately, a throng gathered and pressed close around him. 'We heard you were wounded, Pendragon!' someone shouted, and a dozen other voices chorused their concern in voices sharp with apprehension.
'Do I look wounded?' the High King asked. 'A touch of fever troubled my sleep. I am better now.'
Arthur began to move among his beloved Cymbrogi then, speaking to them, calling them by name, asking after their wives and families. This one he knew had a new son, that one had just married a woman from the south, another trained hounds, still others were sons of former soldiers – Arthur knew them all. Remarkable, I thought, that he should know the small concerns of each man. But this he appeared to do. And I heard in their replies to Arthur, and in the banter that accompanied their talk, enormous relief. Clearly, they had been worried for their king and were now reassured.
The Pendragon moved off in the company of his men, and soon the sport began once more. I watched for a time, then returned to my duties. I gathered firewood and refilled all the water jar's, then took a horse from the picket and rode to a nearby hilltop to cut fresh heather for the Pendragon's bedplace. As the sun touched the western hills, I returned to camp with my bundle of heather.
The Emrys was waiting for me outside the Pendragon's tent. He had the pouch of stone-carving tools in his hand, for he had been at work in the Round Table. 'Where is he?' _
I pointed to the valley. 'With the Cymbrogi. He awoke and went down to them.'
The Emrys turned, walked across the camp, and started down to the valley. Suddenly alarmed, I threw myself from the saddle and hastened after him.
Sunlight the colour of the golden honey mead filled the valley. The sky shone like molten brass, the field like emerald. We came upon Arthur sitting on stone as on a throne, his spear across his lap, eyes half-closed, a smile upon his lips. Gwenhwyvar stood beside him, her hand on his right shoulder, watching the contest before them: two riders speeding at full gallop to snatch an arm-ring from the grass with the point of a spear. She turned her head towards us and smiled, but her smile was tight and unnatural.
'Arthur,' said the Emrys softly.
The Pendragon opened his eyes and turned to greet his Wise Counsellor. 'It is a fine day, is it not?' 'Yes. How do you feel?' 'I am well.'
'When the sun sets it will grow cold. We should return to camp now.'
'But the sun is not gone yet,' said Arthur. 'Sit with me a little while.'
'Gladly,' replied the Emrys, kneeling next to him. The three of them watched the riders for some small time. The sun dipped lower and the shadows crept long. The sky paled; the brilliant colours faded. Sea-birds circled overhead, keening their mournful call to the dying day. I heard the waves tumbling on the nearby shore. The light in the valley dimmed.
The Emrys stood and touched Arthur on the arm. The Pendragon stirred – he had fallen asleep. However, he stood at Myrddin's touch, straightened himself, and called the victors of the contest to him. With good words he praised their prowess, while Gwenhwyvar presented them gifts of gemstones. When this custom had been served, Arthur bade farewell to his men and returned to camp.
At supper, we ate roast venison which some of the warriors had stalked in the nearby wood earlier in the day, and drank ale from the stocks aboard the ships. The night came on cold and damp, as the Emrys said it would, so the fires were banked high. Gwenhwyvar and Bedwyr tried on several occasions to persuade Arthur to withdraw to his tent to rest, but the Pendragon would not.
Instead, he insisted that he should remain with his lords and battlechiefs and called for a song. Myrddin Emrys at first resisted the summons, but at length consented and ordered his harp to be brought to him. 'Which of the tales of Britain would you hear, Pendragon?'
Arthur's brow wrinkled in thought as he paused, then answered, 'It is not of Britain that I would hear tonight, but of the Otherworld. A cold night, with a fresh wind blowing – on storm-tossed nights like this such tales should be told.'
'Very well,' agreed Myrddin Wledig, 'hear then, if you will, the song of Bladydd, the Blemished King.'
I wondered at this choice, for it is an obscure tale and very strange – concerning a prince with a voracious hunger for wisdom, who falls foul of an Otherworld king and is blighted and eventually destroyed by the very knowledge he sought. But the company of lords and battlechiefs loved this tale and, indeed, it was beautifully sung by the Exalted Emrys, last of the True Bards of the Island of the Mighty.
The tale grew long in its telling and when it was over Arthur bade his companions sleep well and with Gwenhwyvar on his arm, went to his tent. I stretched myself on the red calfskin next to the fire, wrapped my cloak tightly around me, and went to sleep.
In the night I heard urgent voices. I arose and saw torchlight flickering inside the Pendragon's tent. Something was wrong. My stomach tightened in alarm.
The camp was dark and no one else was about. I crept to the tent and peered inside.
Bedwyr and the Emrys were with him. Gwenhwyvar stood a little apart, her hands at her side, twisting her silken mantle in tight fists. Blood smeared her face and the front of her mantle.
'Lie still, Bear,' Bedwyr was saying. 'Let the Emrys care for you.'
'Be easy, brother,' said Arthur in a rasping voice. 'I am going to get up now. I cannot let the Cymbrogi see me here like this.'
The Emrys toiled at the wound; his hands were dripping with Arthur's blood.
'The Cymbrogi have seen you lie about before,' Bedwyr told him. 'They are well used to the sight. Be quiet, now.' 'I will not! Help me stand.' He snatched at Bedwyr's cloak
and made to pull himself up. The covering slipped from around his neck. I saw the wound and gasped.
It was a ghastly green-grey, with violet thread-like fingers stretching across the Pendragon's shoulder. The flesh along the original cut was withered, black and rotting. Arthur's neck was red and inflamed from his throat to his armpit. The wound had apparently burst in the night – the pain must have been unbearable! – and the Emrys had been called to stop the bleeding.
'I am finished,' said Myrddin at last. 'I can do nothing more here.' Bedwyr and the Emrys put their arms around Arthur's wide shoulders and raised him up.