Votan and Other Novels (FANTASY MASTERWORKS) (79 page)

But busy they all were. They were men from the South, from the border of Mordei, from Mordei itself and even from Bernicia. Their own smithies the Savages had burnt, and they had fled north to Eiddin, to the only King who seemed strong and determined enough to promise that one day they would return to the
lost lands. These smiths from the South sweated the bitterness of defeat into their weapons: their fires smelt of revenge. I watched their work. I had no feeling whatsoever. It was one thing to think of war by the candle-light of Evrog’s Hall. It was different here, in the clear light of day, in a place so well known. It was different here, where Bradwen lived.

At the bottom of the hill was Mynydog’s farm. It was a cluster of barns and stables and pigsties, and a fold for the lambing. There was another smithy there, with men who could have made mail, because they were skilful enough, but they had enough work of their own. There was also a wheelwright’s shop and a waggoner’s yard. All the carts of the Kingdom were made there. Mynydog lived well on his carts. And between the farm and the slopes and steeps of the Giant’s Throne and the river, stretched the fields where Mynydog ran his horses as my father did in the pastures of Cae’r Ebolion before Aber-Arth.

Now, though, there were more barns than I could remember, many more, great longhouses. Some of them were well thatched and all the cracks in their walls sealed, and they had stood the winds of winter as I could see from their colour. Others were new, their timbers still showing white from the axe, and their roofs hardly thatched, but covered hurriedly with leafy boughs, not enough to keep out the summer showers, let alone the drenching rains of autumn. These would not last. They were no more substantial than the booths we used to build when we were young, to sleep in through the summer nights when we were herding the sheep out on the high moors.

But they were not shepherds who slept in these huts. With the older barns, there would be room for two hundred, or more. A young man on campaign does not look for comfort in space. The nearer he sleeps to his comrades, the warmer he lies and the safer he feels. And there were more than two hundred. I could see them out on the meadows, forming into three lines, fifty yards apart, in the true Roman way. Far away they were, too far to see any one man clearly, to make out more than that they were horsemen, drilling.

Someone, then, was drilling the King’s Household like a regiment of cavalry, real cavalry like they have in the Empire,
mail-clad from head to foot, fit to face the Goths. Yes, you could see the sheen of their helmets, and above them a long shimmer of red, a glowing streak across the top of each line.

I had been standing long enough. By now Precent would have spoken to Mynydog. What he said did not matter. Aneirin did not depend on any man’s words. Somewhere past the Judgement Mound, Bradwen would be waiting for me. I walked towards her, up the long gentle hill to the gate of the Dun.

Before the gate, long ago, earth was heaped up to form the Mound, and the grass was green on it. Mynydog’s throne was set on the mound, so that seated his shoulders were above the heads of standing men. He wore the scarlet robe of state, that his father had received from Vortigern the Good, who was King of all the Romans on the Isle of Britain, before the Savages came and Hengist struck him dead at his own board. Across Mynydog’s knees lay unsheathed the sword of the Kings of Eiddin, an old blade, made by magicians, the hilt of bronze stretched out in two wide horns above the pommel.

On his head, Mynydog wore the Crown of the House of Gododdin. Precious beyond belief, it was all of silver, and covered with a film of gold, so that it sparkled to strike awe into all who saw it. There is a cross of gold on the summit, and the rim is set with precious stones of great value, garnets and amethysts and fine crystal won in battle from the Picts and the Irish Scots long before the Wall was made.

There were a great number of people about the King. Beside him stood Clydno the Judge, his ivory staff tipped and bound with silver, his robe bound with ermine like a King’s, and his head bare, to show that even a Judge goes in subjection to a King, though the King obeys the law.

Clydno’s face was still glowing with the pleasure of seeing his son again after three years. Cynon stood at the foot of the Mound, with Precent. As I went up the hill, and saw the Mound ahead, so Aidan came down, and Morien, Gelorwid and Peredur Ironarms. Mynydog, I saw, had not waited, nor had he been niggardly with Evrog’s gift. They came armed in mail, and helm and unpainted shield, and each had a sword. Only a King may grant arms, and only to his own followers. A young man I used to know, called
Gwion Catseyes, led them down to the huts in the King’s farmyard. They did not notice me, or see me, not even Gwion. They were too happy, they were now men, and warriors.

I came nearer to the Judgement Mound. I had to push my way through the crowd. Nobody recognised me. They were not expecting me. Nobody, I thought, would know me unprompted. Nobody will be glad that I have returned, except Bradwen. Bradwen will be glad to see me, however old and weak I have come to look, however long I have been away, whether I make songs or not. Bradwen will know me, she will be glad to see me come home. For Eiddin is my home, now that Eudav’s Hall is burnt. I will not ride out, whatever Precent may think I meant at Evrog’s table. I said nothing there. I only said that I would return to Eiddin. I meant that I would return to Bradwen. I did not promise to go to Mynydog’s war, whoever is the Captain of the Household. I will sit here in Eiddin, and watch the armies ride out, and then I will have some peace, with Bradwen, and perhaps I may even learn to sing again.

I came to the front of the crowd, and all at once there was someone who knew me. Mynydog’s little nephew was there, four years old, or perhaps just turned five, I can’t remember, son of Mynydog’s sister Ygraine, though who his father was, whether her husband Gorlois or someone else, was more than anyone liked to guess at. He had been sent here to be fostered in the North as I had been, and for the same reasons, first that it was safe here, and second that nobody seemed to care what became of him. His half-sister Gwenllian had come with him, fourteen years old when she carried the baby into Eiddin in her arms.

The little boy was Mynydog’s only nephew, and the King was very fond of him, as indeed everyone was in Eiddin. You would have expected him to be quite spoiled, but in spite of all the fuss and petting he was still the most loving and patient child you ever heard of. Perhaps it was his sweet and equable temper and his feelings for justice, even at that age. Of course, he had his favourites, and I, once, had been one. He was sitting on his little stool at the foot of the throne, as he had already started to do the year before. He was very good, for only four, an age when it is a penance to sit still for any time at all. But still he sat, his palms on his knees, and listened to every case.

I came forward then, towards the foot of the mound, and I did not know if Cynon had been as free with his tongue as in Dumbarton, or if Precent had listened to what I told him. You could never keep Precent quiet in the old days. I did not know if I were expected or unexpected, a surprise to the King or one awaited and prepared for. I never found that out. As soon as I came to the front of the crowd, it was the little boy who saw me and remembered me. Yes, at four years old, after a whole year, and that is a very long time in a child’s life, a quarter of it, he remembered me, and that shows how marvellous he was, even as a child. He stood up and shouted, ‘’neirin! ’neirin! Look what I got! I got a sword, a real sword. Arthgi made it.’

And it was a real sword, only of wood, of course, just right for his size, and Arthgi had taken some care in the carving and in making the little scabbard of leather that the child was so proud to wear at his belt. He waved it at me, and the whole crowd turned to look at me, the King and all his Officers. I stood there silent, and they too were all silent, and even the little boy stopped shouting, and looked about him guiltily for a moment as if he had done something to be blamed for, although that would have been impossible for him in Eiddin, even when he was little. And still is. But the silence was only for a moment.

Mynydog rose from his throne and came down the Mound of Judgement. I know that you will say that it is not much for a Poet to boast about, that a King embraced him; rather, it is for a King to boast that a Poet allowed his embraces. A King’s embrace is not an honour: it is what you expect if you have a mastery of language and can make songs and satires and hymns of praise, and if you can hold in your tongue the fame of every man you meet, and can determine how even the greatest king will be remembered. By the Poets who sat in his Hall is a King’s greatness judged. Mynydog was a great King, great as Vortigern the Wise. Even Arthur will depend on the Poets to be remembered.

But for Mynydog to embrace me was different. We embraced, as two men, one old, one young, as two close, too close kinsmen. Whatever had happened, it was meaningless compared to the bonds that held us together, that still drew us together till he died, whenever he died, because I never knew. Or how.

‘Welcome again, Bard of the Island of the Mighty,’ was what he said. I answered, ‘I am no longer a Poet’.

I did not have to talk to him as simply as I did to Evrog, explaining or hiding things that could not easily be explained. Mynydog was wiser than his own Judge and cleverer than his own Fool, and he could foretell the future better than his own Astronomer, and he could do that as well by firelight as by starlight, and as well in daylight as in the dark. He knew what I meant. He did not need to be persuaded. He only repeated, ‘Welcome, well come again into Eiddin, Aneirin of the Gododdin.’ He looked round at his people. He asked, as always at the end of the hour of Judgement, ‘Is there peace?’

We all answered, ‘There is peace.’

Mynydog sheathed the sword of the House. Gwanar, as always at Clydno’s elbow, his axe in his belt, raised his trumpet and blew the horn for the ending of the court. The people who had come to seek justice or to see justice done to others went back each to his own village in Eiddin or Alban or the edge of Mordei. They would have justice. With Mynydog to proclaim the law, and Clydno to tell it, and Gwanar to execute it, there was always justice in Eiddin. Mynydog with his left hand took my arm, and the little boy, shy now, sensing only that something had happened to mar the happiness of those whose only care for most of his life had been for his happiness from minute to minute, he put his hand into my other hand and pressed himself close to my thigh, rubbing against me as we walked like a cat.

In silence we walked to the gate of the Dun, and nobles of the Court walked behind. Just before the Gate they broke off, and went to their own houses within the Dun or outside it. I thought, soon, in a moment, in the courtyard beyond the gate or in the doorway of the Hall, I will see Bradwen. Then I will be well come indeed. Once I see her, it will all be over and my journey will be at an end. She will heal everything. But I did not know that my journey was already to Cattraeth, and there would be no returning. For the King stopped in the gate and said, ‘Let us wait here. Someone is coming up the Hill whom you must meet.’

I looked towards the village. The Horsemen were dismounting in the farmyard and breaking into little knots, unsaddling
their horses and rubbing them down with handfuls of grass and throwing blankets over them. That I could guess, even though I could see only a little at that distance. My sight was keener then than it is now. Only one man out of all that host was riding between the houses now. We waited for him.

This then must be the man Mynydog had chosen out of all the men he knew to lead his army into the Mordei, and farther South. Who was it? Who was the man whom Precent had refused to name? Who had been chosen before Precent to be Captain of the Household of Eiddin, whom Precent was willing to follow? No one, I was sure, out of the Kingdom of the Gododdin. But from farther away? Who could have come to Eiddin across the lands and seas that the Savages and the Irish ravaged? Were there heroes from among the South Britons, or from the other Romans of Gaul and Italy, of whom I had not heard? I waited and I watched. Mynydog and I did not speak. We knew each other too well. We stood, and half my mind was on the scene before me, and half was on Bradwen, and surer and surer was I that when I saw her, it would make all well.

The rider came nearer, walking his weary beast up the slope, his greyhounds trotting behind. And then, when he dismounted and let a groom take horse and dogs, I saw the Ravens on his shield and I knew, before Mynydog said, ‘Now we see the long awaited meeting, between the two greatest men of all the Isle of Britain, between Aneirin the Pre-eminent Bard, and Owain, son of Mark.’

Yes, this was Owain, King Mark of Cornwall’s son, Tristram’s brother. There has been trouble there, and it would not have happened had not Owain come to Eiddin, to ride with us all to Cattraeth. But Owain
had
come North, flaunting his Ravens, at Mynydog’s call, as if they alone would clear the Savages out of the Eastern coasts, and peck the Loegrians clear out of the Island. (Ravens we said they were. He said no, they were a smaller bird, a chough, that lives in the sea-cliffs of Cornwall, but they looked like Ravens to us, and the Ravens we called them always.)

It was this Raven flag and this Raven shield that men would follow: they had all heard of them. Oh, I thought, this is a shrewd move, to bring in from outside
this
man to lead us, the men of Eiddin, mingled as we were already with men from other
kingdoms of the North, and with men dispossessed from lands south of the Wall. There would be no favourites, with this foreigner to lead us, a man of blood as good as any among us, and better. To lead us, I asked myself? No, to lead them. My business was not with Owain, but with Bradwen.

A big man, Owain, seventeen hands high and a half. You will not find his match for strength today among the nobles who follow Arthur. It would have been no trouble for Owain to have killed Bladulf – he could have done it in his sleep. It would have been no trouble for Owain to have killed a thousand Savages, if he had met them in fair fight. They could never have overcome him except by treachery. No, not Owain.