Arthur

As the last light of afternoon faded from the sky to the east, she said, 'Something has happened to him. We should go down there.'

I agreed. We rode the steep and narrow trail down to the causeway below the Tor, across the marsh and around the lake to the little abbey that stands at the foot of the Shrine.

We were met by several monks, who indicated that Merlin had indeed gone up to the Shrine and had asked to be left alone. No one had seen him since. No one had dared disturb him.

Charis thanked the brothers and we continued on our way, climbing the path leading to the Shrine.

Shrine Hill is a small hump of earth lying hard by the Tor. It is an ancient and holy place, for it is here that word of the Blessed Christ first reached the Island of the Mighty. And here the worship of the True God first began in this land.

The Shrine itself is a small, round building of wattle and mud, washed white with lime. The bare earth floor is swept every day, and the thatched roof is continually renewed, so that the tiny chapel always appears new-made.

In recent years, an abbey was constructed nearby at the foot of the hill, so that the Shrine will never lack for care. The abbey itself has become a place of healing – due largely to the ministrations of Charis. The Lady of the Lake, as she is called by the humble folk, is known to be a skilled and compassionate healer.

We mounted the hill and walked to the Shrine. No sound came from within. The air was dead; nothing moved, no bird sang the evensong. We listened for a moment, then stepped through the low doorway. Inside the shadows deepened to dusk.

At first we did not see anything but a dark heap before the altar – as if a careless monk had left a tangle of clothing there. We approached and Charis knelt down.

'Merlin?' She reached out a hand and the heap moved at her touch. There was a rustle of cloth and Merlin rolled over. 'Merlin?'

'Oh – Mother… ' His face shone pale in the fading light. 'I – I must have fallen asleep.'

'Come,' said Charis, bending over him, 'we will take you home now.'

'Mother,' said Merlin, getting to his knees and unwinding the altar cloth from around him. He appeared haggard and gaunt – as if he had been battling demons in his sleep. 'I am sorry. I meant to have this day with you, and I – '

'It is well,' Charis replied quickly. 'Come, we will go home now.'

Merlin rose slowly. I picked up the altar cloth, shook it out, and placed it back on the altar. As I turned to follow Merlin and Charis out, I noticed a dark place on the ground… Sweat? Tears?

The earth was damp where Merlin had lain his head.

ELEVEN

We departed the Glass Isle the next day as we had planned, much to Charis' misgiving. It was not a happy farewell. We all knew too much of the evil stalking the land, and the havoc Morgian could wreak with her power. Our thoughts were heavy with foreboding.

The world, with the change of season, had become a colder, wilder place. Summer had fled like a hart through the brake, and an early winter stood poised for the chase.

The land brooded doom. Menacing, sinister – as if desolation lurked behind every tree and destruction behind every hill. Wickedness inhabited each wilderness, and iniquity streamed from every lonely place.

I do not recall ever passing through a land so gravid with apprehension. The way became strange; familiar pathways seemed malignant with peril. Every plodding step was laboured and slow.

Merlin, wrapped in his cloak, journeyed with his head down, hands folded on the pommel of his saddle. A passer-by might have mistaken his attitude for that of prayerful meditation. It was not. It was the posture of a defeated chieftain returning in humiliation and disgrace.

One grey afternoon, as we rode through Morganwg's lands, we encountered a band of Iceni fifty strong – old men, women, and children mostly – leading a few head of cattle and some sheep. Four wagons creaked slowly along behind them. Aside from the lowing of the cattle, and the creak of the wagon wheels, they made no sound as they trudged through the gathering mist.

Merlin hailed them and they halted to give us the sorry news: their settlement and many others like it had been destroyed by a Saecsen raid three days before.

'That is bitter to hear,' replied Merlin in all sympathy.

'There is no cheer in the telling,' spat the group's leader, a man with an axe wound in his side. 'The shore forts fell at once. There was no defence at all.'

'What of Coledac?' wondered Merlin.

'Killed with the warband. Every man of them dead. No one escaped, and the Sea Wolves left none alive. When the strongholds fell, the barbarians turned to the farms. We fled when we saw the smoke in the east.'

'Our settlement was small – the others were attacked first… and destroyed,' lamented the haggard woman who stood beside him.

'That is so,' agreed the man unhappily. 'I fear the other holdings had the worst of it. From what we are hearing, it was much worse in the south along the Saecsen Shore.'

Commending them to God, we rode on.

That night Merlin gazed into the flames of our desultory camp fire searching for a sign. There was little hope in what he saw, little light to hold against the gathering darkness. In all it was a drear and cheerless journey, and a sorry return.

We arrived at Caer Melyn in driving rain. Soaked to the skin, shivering with cold, we stood before the fire in Arthur's new-finished hall, feeling the life seep back into our stiff limbs. Arthur brought spiced wine to us and served us from his own hand.

'Myrddin! Pelleas! It is a fine and happy sight I am seeing! Welcome, welcome!' Arthur called in greeting. His smile was as immense as it was genuine. 'How did you fare in the south, my friends?'

Merlin did not have it in him to soften his reply. 'Disaster threatens, boy,' he said, 'and darkness must soon overtake us.'

Arthur, the smile still on his broad happy face, glanced from one to the other of us, as if unwilling to believe. Indeed, the hall was warm, the fire bright – despairing words held little meaning. 'How so?'

'There is a power in this land that will not be appeased until all are in subjection to it.'

'Well, that is a worry for another day. Tonight, I am with my friends and the wine is good.' He lifted his cup. 'To our enemies' enemies! And to your safe return!'

It was Arthur's welcome alone, I believe, which turned the tide of misery for Merlin.

For I saw my master behold the young Duke in all his youthful zeal, the light of life burning so brightly in him, that he determined for Arthur's sake to put the gloom and depression that had dogged our journey behind him. I saw the line of Merlin's shoulders lift; I saw his chin rise. And though the smile with which he returned Arthur's welcome was forced, it was a smile nonetheless, and the greeting with it true.

Thus, soon after our arrival at Caer Melyn the pall which hung over Merlin's spirit began to lift. This was Arthur's doing, as I have said. For even then he was* beginning to display that rarest of qualities: a joy inspired by hardship, deepened by adversity, and exalted by tragedy.

Arthur could find the golden beam of hope in defeat, the single glimmer of blue in the storm-fretted sky. It was this that made him such a winning leader – the kind of man for whom other men gladly lay down their lives. Arthur's enthusiasm and assurance were the flint and steel to the dry tinder of men's hearts. Once he learned to strike the spark, he could set the flame any time he chose. And that was a sight to see, I tell you.

That night, as we stood together before the hearth, my master found reason to hope against all evidence to the contrary. He began, I think, to sense the shape of our salvation: it was larger, grander, higher, purer and far more potent than he had ever imagined.