Its fulfilling would follow in due season. I did not know what it meant at the time, but I know now. It was God's saining witness to Arthur's sovereignty, and a portent of the trial to come. For one day I would see that same young man make the same desperate stand against a great and terrible adversary wielding swift and certain death. And on that day Arthur would become immortal.
BOOK TWO
ONE
The days draw down; they dwindle and run away. See how swiftly they scatter! But not a single day passes that I do not recall with pleasure the kingmaking of Arthur ap Aurelius. And because he was Aurelius' son – despite whatever ignorant slanderers may say – I strove to give him the same crowntaking as his father.
You will excuse me if I say nothing of that long season of strife we endured at the hands of certain southern lords and lordlings, or the fierce battles with the Saecsen that followed. More than enough has been written about those war-wasted years – even small children know the tales by heart. I will say only that after seven years of incessant fighting, Arthur broke the back of the barbarian host at Baedun Hilclass="underline" a fearsome battle, lasting three days and costing lives in the very thousands. This, and Arthur not yet king!
I was there, yes. I saw it all, and still I saw nothing: I was blind from my encounter with Morgian. Some little time before Baedun, you will recall, I had left the war host and travelled south, determined to break the power of the Queen of Air and Darkness for once and all. Dread Morgian was at that time beginning to take an interest in Arthur's deeds and I could not stand by and watch her spinning her evil schemes around the future High King of Britain.
I went alone, telling no one. Pelleas, following me, was lost and never returned – may the Gifting God grant him mercy. I know Morgian killed him. She all but killed me as well. Bedwyr and Gwalcmai found me in Llyonesse, and brought me back: blind, but unbeaten, having cleared the way for Arthur's sovereignty. And that day was not far off.
After the bloodbath of Baedun, as terrible in necessity as in execution, we retreated to nearby Mailros Abbey to rest and give thanks for the victory we had won. Though the abbey was yet little more than a ruin, the good brothers had returned and were even then beginning repairs. As it was nearest Baedun – indeed, within sight of that blood-drenched, double-humped hill – Arthur chose it as the place to offer his prayers of thanksgiving.
We stayed two days and then, having bound our wounds, continued up the Vale of Twide to Caer Edyn, where Lord Ectorius, his great heart bursting with pride, hosted a feast such as few men ever enjoy. For three days and three nights we sat at table, eating and drinking, healing our battle-bruised hearts and souls in the company of true men.
Good Ector, last of his noble breed, lavished his best on us, giving all without stint. Of good bread and roast meat there was no end; freely flowed the ale and rich honey mead – no sooner was one bowl emptied than another appeared, filled from the huge ale tub Ector had established in his hall. White foam and sparkling amber filling the cups and bowls of the Lords of Britain! Sweet as the kiss of a maiden, sweet as peace between noble men!
'I do not understand it, Myrddin,' Ector whispered, pulling me aside the evening of the third day. 'The ale vats are not empty.'
'No? Well, it is not for lack of exertion, I assure you,' I replied.
'But that is what I am saying,' he insisted.
'You are saying nothing, my friend,' I chided gently. 'Speak plainly, Ector.'
'The ale should have run out by now. I had not so much in store.'
'You must have mistaken yourself. And a happy mistake, too.'
'But the ale does not diminish,' he insisted. 'As many times as I send to it, the vat remains full.'
'No doubt in all this merrymaking the servants have become confused. Or maybe we have not drunk as much as you think.'
'Do I not know my own brewhouse, man?' Ectorius countered. 'Look at them, Wise Emrys, and tell me again I am mistaken.'
'It is for you to look, Ector,' I replied, touching the bandage on my eyes. 'Tell me what you see.'
'I did not mean – ' he blustered. 'Oh, you know what I mean.'
'Be easy, Ector,' I soothed. 'I believe you.'
'I know! I will tell Dyfrig – he will know what to do.'
'Yes,' I agreed, 'send for the good bishop. He will be my eyes.'
Ectorius departed at once. Meanwhile, the feasting continued unabated; the circling of the cups did not cease. Soon, the bottom of the tub began showing through the foam once more, and a cry went up for the serving lads to fill it again. This time, I went with them. 'Lead me to the alehouse,' I ordered the oldest boy, placing my hand on his shoulder.
He led me out from the hall and across the foreyard to one of the stout outbuildings of Ector's holding. Inside were three great oaken barrels – two for ale, and one for mead. 'Bring the brewmaster,' I told my guide as the other boys set about replenishing their buckets. 'I will speak to him here.'
Making my way to the nearest container, I put my hands on it and felt the wooden staves; I rapped the side with my knuckles and heard the frothy slosh as the boys plunged their buckets. As big around as a wagon wheel, and nearly man-height, it would hold a fair amount. Two such together, as Ector had, might supply a celebration such as ours for a day and a night – perhaps two even – but never three days and three nights.
'How much is in the vat?' I asked the nearest boy.
'Why, it is nearly full, Emrys,' the boy replied.
'And the other? Empty or full?'
'It is full, lord,' the boy replied.
'When last did you fill from it?'
The lad – I imagined him ten or twelve summers, judging from his voice – hesitated. 'Lord?'
'The question is simple enough, boy,' I said. 'When did you last fill from the second vat?'
'But we have not touched it, lord,' he answered. 'This is the only one we are allowed to breach.'
'That is true,' confirmed an adult voice from the doorway behind me. 'Wise Emrys,' the man said, 'I am Dervag, brew-master to Lord Ector. Is there something wrong with the ale?'
'I remember you, Dervag. Your ale is excellent, never fear,' I assured him. 'Even so, it is suspiciously plentiful. This has pricked my interest.'
'My lord Ector keeps three casks,' Dervag explained, coming to stand with me. 'These three: two ale, and one mead. The boys fill from the standing vat, and only when the last drop is drained from the first will I allow anyone to open the next.'
'Then perhaps you could look for me and see that all is as it should be.'
The amiable man stepped up on the stone beside the vat. 'It is above two-thirds full yet,' he announced, growing puzzled. He hurried to the second barrel. I heard a wooden cover lifted and quickly dropped back into place.
'This vat has not been touched.' The brewmaster's tone had become wary and slightly accusatory. 'What is happening here?'
'An apt question, Dervag,' I replied lightly. 'How is it that men feast three days and nights and the ale vat shows less sign of ebbing than yonder lake? Answer me if you can.'
'But, Lord Emrys, I cannot answer. Since the warband's return, I have been day and night in the brewing house, preparing to refresh these vats when they are empty. I bethought myself that when the lad came to fetch me, it was to open the second vat. But this' – he struggled to make sense of it – 'this is most unchancy.'
'Nonsense!' declared the cleric, arriving with Ector just then.
Dyfrig, Bishop of Mailros, though a big-hearted, cheerful man, maintained a precise and particular mind worthy of any scholar. He went to the cask, peered in, and declared that to his eye the vat appeared full.
'Yet this single observation is no true test,' he stated.
'But we have drunk from this selfsame ale vat for three days,' Ector insisted. 'And it is no less full than when we first began.'