Bors, Bedwyr and Rhys, who had served so long with the Pendragon, could not be happy with any lesser lord – even the honourable Cador. They determined among themselves to answer the long neglected challenge of the Grail. They rode off in quest of this most holy vessel, to find it and establish it in the Round Table.
They hoped by this to honour Arthur's dearest wish and, I believe, to restore the quickly fading glory of his exalted reign. For the darkness that Myrddin and Arthur had so long held at bay was, like flood water spilling over an earthen dike, already rushing in to extinguish the feeble glow that yet lingered upon Britain. The last of the renowned Flight of Dragons hoped yet to turn men's hearts from fear, and to crown the passing age with its highest honour.
Alas, they did not succeed. I learned later that of the three only Bedwyr came back alive. Bors and Rhys ended their days in the Holy Land, where it was rumoured that Rhys' head adorned a spear atop the gates of Damascus. Bors, it was said, lived long and died in his bed, surrounded by a wife and five brown children. Bedwyr alone returned to Britain. He became a hermit and took the rotunda for his hermitage. I never saw him again, for he died in that holy precinct soon after.
Cador asked me to join him, but I had had my fill of fighting and longed to lose myself in prayer and study. I travelled with the Cymbrogi as far as Dyfed and found a place at the Abertaff monastery, under the wing of the revered Teilo and his superior, the venerable Illtyd. I sojourned there and learned much to my advantage of holy matters.
In time, a call came to me from the Britons in Armorica. Hopeless in the face of increasing strife among the small kings, good men were abandoning the Island of the Mighty in ever increasing numbers. The exiles asked me to come to them, so I left my cell and took up my work in the church at Rhuys. I stayed there long; married, raised my children in peace and saw them grown. But ever I yearned to see the green hills of Britain once more. I returned and joined the good brothers at the Shrine of the Saviour God at Ynys Avallach, where I endure to this day.
I am an old man, and my heart grows heavy with the weight of grief. Most unhappy of men am I, most untimely born: to have witnessed both the dazzling radiance of the True Light, and the blinding darkness of evil, black and rampant. More fortunate by far are those who lived and died with Arthur, knowing nothing but the world made bright by his presence. Would that I had gone with him in his boat to Avallon!
To serve him in whatever court he now resides is all I wish. My voice would not be silent in his hall, nor would he lack the pleasing sound of heartfelt praise in his ears. I would make of his name a song, of his life a tale fit for the instruction of kings.
I look back on my life from a prominence of some years, and see shining still that golden time when I was young – shining all the more brightly for the gloom. It glows like a polished gem picked out by a single ray of the sun's dying light and fired to wonderful brightness, so that all around it is illumined and charged with splendour.
But the sun passes, as it must. And the gem, still a gem, grows dark once more.
I waited – all my life long I have waited – for some word or sign of Arthur and the Emrys, whether they were dead or living still. In all my journeying I have asked and sought and listened for what I longed to hear. I have grown old in listening!
Of Arthur and his Wise Counsellor never any word or sign came to men. Of Avallach and his daughter Charis, Lady of the Lake, and their people, never more was heard. The Fan-Folk and their kind were no more to be found in this worlds-realm; their passing went unmarked and unlamented.
I have laboured long over this through the many years since that first unhappy day. Alas, I am no wiser for all my ardent contemplation!
Perhaps God in his infinite wisdom and mercy simply reached down and gathered that bright company to his loving heart. Perhaps the Lord Jesu in his unceasing compassion looked upon Arthur's suffering and spared him the indignity of death and, like Elijah of old, carried our king bodily into paradise in a golden chariot with wheels of fire.
Or perhaps the last True Bard of Britain hid the beloved Pendragon from mortal eyes with a powerful enchantment, until such time as need calls him forth to battle Britain's enemies once more.
So it is told, and so many believe. I do not say that this shall be so. I will say only that here in this worlds-realm Arthur's life was changed. For Myrddin Emrys was a prophet, and like his father, Taliesin, was a bard aflame with God's own virtue. From his holy awen he spoke forth many things, but ever he spoke the truth. And the Wise Emrys said that Arthur would yet come again to lead his own.
EPILOGUE
False Kings! Power-mad dogs dressed in purple robes! Bloody-minded barbarians to a man! We are not sunk so low as to revere your names in song. When you die, as soon you must, there will be no lament, no grave-song, no weeping of heartfelt tears. The eyes of your people will be dry as the dust in your tombs, and your names will decay more swiftly than your disgusting bones!
Would that you had never lived! With both hands, like ignorant children scattering good grain from a sack, you threw away Arthur's peace. You exchanged hard-won freedom for slavery to vice and every corruption. In your greed you have wasted all the land. And what you did not destroy, you gave to the enemy to despoil!
Look at you! You sit with your fat-bellied warbands in your feud mead halls, drunk in your cups, inflamed with your small treasons. Cattle thieves! Raiding your neighbour lords and men of your own race and blood, worrying one another with unworthy conflicts, warring on your kinsmen and brothers while heathens burn and plunder!
Your legacy is death! The disgust of good men is your renown! The lowly languish; humble make curses of your names. Does this please you? Does it swell your hearts with pride?
Speak to me no longer of great lords. I will hear no more of kings and their lofty affairs. Their concerns are the concerns of the maggot in the dung-heap. I, who have soared with eagles, will not wallow with pigs!
To our everlasting shame, the very barbarians who everywhere supplant us are proving better Christians than the Britons who first taught them the Faith! Their zeal is as sharp as the spears they once raised against us, while that of our kings has grown dull, their hearts cold. Are they to show themselves better men?
Once there was a time, now all but forgotten, when the world knew what it was to be ruled by a righteous lord, when one man of faith held all realms in his strong hand, when the High King of Heaven blessed his High King on Earth.
Britain was exalted then.
Not for the tongues of mortal men is the elegy of the Pendragon. Oh, Arthur, your Matchless Creator alone chants your funeral song, the echo resounding in men's souls to the world's end. In the meantime, the knife of great longing pierces the heart. The High King of Heaven has left the nation without a roof.
Woe and grief! The ruin of Britain! For the wickedness of men endures to the end of the age! To the day of doom and judgement the plagues of iniquity and cruelty and strife beat us down! Evil thrives, good is forgotten. The usurper sits on the righteous lord's throne. The unjust man becomes judge. The liar dispenses truth. That is the way of the world. So be it!
My black book is ended. I, Gildas, write this, and I will write no more.