Arthur

Arthur laughed and it was the first lifting of our hearts all day.

The clouds closed in again, darkening the glen. The wind stirred, biting cold. We urged our horses to a trot and made for the settlement.

Upon reaching the cluster of stone houses beside the clear-running stream, we were met by a large, black, barking dog. We reined up and waited for the animal's yelps to summon someone and, presently, a brown-braided young girl appeared.

No more than six or seven summers, she threw her arms around the dog's neck and chided it. Tyrannos! Be quiet!'

The beast subsided under the child's insistence, and Merlin, leaning low in the saddle, addressed the girl, saying, 'I give you good day, my child.'

'Who are you?' she asked frankly, eyeing the harp-shaped hump under the leather wrap behind Merlin's saddle. Curious how children always saw that first.

'We are travellers. And we are cold and hungry. Is there room at your hearth this night?'

She did not answer, but spun on her heel and dashed back to the house. I caught her shout as she disappeared behind the ox-hide hanging in the doorway. 'The Emrys! The Emrys is here!'

Merlin shook his head in astonishment. 'Has it come to this?' he wondered. 'Even small children know me by sight.'

'There are not so many harpers hereabouts,' Arthur suggested, indicating the telltale bulge behind Merlin's saddle. 'And there is only one Emrys, after all.'

'Be that as it may, I would rather the whole of the island did not know our every move.'

'Be at peace, Worrier,' replied Arthur good-naturedly. 'It is a harmless thing.' He stretched in the saddle, and eyed the rapidly darkening sky. The rising wind whined on the hilltops – a cold, forlorn sound. 'I wish someone would take an interest in us.'

He had his wish. A moment later, the flint-chip yard was full of people. We were greeted by a man named Bervach, who welcomed us warmly. 'It is not a day for travelling, my lords. Come in by the fire and we will chase the cold from your bones. There is meat on the spit and drink in the skin.'

'We accept your hospitality,' replied Merlin, climbing down from the saddle. 'Your kindness will be repaid.'

The man grinned happily, showing a wide gap between his front teeth. 'Never say it! The Emrys does not pay to sleep beneath the roof of Bervach ap Gevayr.' Despite his words, the man could not help himself; his eyes stole to the bundle behind the saddle and his grin widened.

'Nevertheless, you shall have a reward,' promised Merlin. He winked at me, and I loosened the harp from the saddle and cradled it under my arm as the horses were led away to fodder.

'It is not a day for travelling,' repeated Bervach, as we stooped to enter the low-beamed house. 'The wind on the hills can chill the marrow. Come in, friends, and be welcome.'

Arthur strode to a wide, deep hearth that occupied the whole of one wall. He stood before the hearth and held out his hands, sighing with pleasure as the warmth seeped in.

Bervach watched Arthur for a moment, curiosity glinting in his eyes. 'I feel I should know this one with you,' he said to Merlin, by way of coaxing a name from him. When Merlin did not rise to the bait, he added, 'Yet, I have never set eyes to him before now.'

I saw the quick clash between pride and prudence mirrored in Merlin's glance. He desired to keep Arthur's identity hidden – we were not in our own lands and Arthur still had enemies. And yet Merlin wanted men to know and esteem Arthur, for their respect and devotion would one day be required.

The contest was brief. Pride won.

'Since you ask,' replied Merlin, 'I will tell you who it is that stands before your fire: Arthur ap Aurelius, Duke of Britain.'

Bervach's eyebrows lifted at this knowledge. 'I owned nun a lord the moment I saw him.' He nodded slowly, then with a shrug dismissed Arthur, saying, 'I have heard of this Duke Arthur, though I did not think to see one so young. But come, I stand here between you and the fire. Go now. I will fetch a warming draught.' It was clear who counted with Bervach.

We joined Arthur at the hearth. A rosy fire crackled smartly beneath a long spit, bending beneath the weight of the great haunch roasting there. The aroma of venison filled the single large room. Smoke hung thick, sifting its way out slowly through the heavy reed thatch of the roof. Barley loaves baked in neat rows in a corner of the hearthstone.

In all it was a close and comfortable dwelling, now filling with other families of the settlement, all talking excitedly in hushed voices. As Bervach produced horn cups, the people of the holding continued to crowd in, until the small house could hold no more. And still they came: man, woman, and child; thirty souls in all – the entire settlement.

Women bustled about, bearing vessels of wood and pottery, whispering, working efficiently. They were assembling an impromptu feast in our honour. Clearly, the visit of the Emrys was an event not to be missed. And none, apparently, would.

Bervach ap Gevayr was, for this night at least, the equal of any lord in the Island of the Mighty, for tonight the Emrys slept beneath his roof. What happened this night would be remembered and discussed, and all events following would date from it for years to come. Future generations would be told that on this night the Emrys passed by, and he stayed in this house, ate our food and drank our mead, and slept on this very hearth.

And he sang! Oh, yes, he sang…

Merlin was well aware of the expectations his presence created. Although tired, and desiring nothing but food and sleep, he would please his hosts.

So, after the meal – and it proved as good and satisfying a meal as any we had enjoyed in far richer houses – Merlin motioned to me for his harp. I had tuned it, of course, and brought it out to squeals of delight and sighs of pleasure.

'Were I a king,' declared Merlin loudly, so that all could hear, 'I could not have obtained a better supper. But since I am no king, I must do what I can to reward you.'

'Please, you are our guests. Do not feel you must repay us,' said Bervach, seriously. 'But,' he paused, flashing his gap-toothed smile suddenly, 'if it would please you to ease the hardship of the road in this way, we will bear it for your sake.'

Merlin laughed heartily. 'Once again, I am in your debt. Still, it would please me if you would endure a song – for my sake.'

'Very well, since you insist. But a short song only – nothing of length. We would not want you to tax yourself overmuch on our account.'

Merlin sang The Children of Llyr, a very long and intricate tale of great and haunting beauty. I had heard it twice before – once in Aurelius' war camp, and once in Ban's hall – but never have I heard it sung as Merlin sang it.

The harp spun its shining silver melodies in the still air, and Merlin's voice followed, weaving among them a melody of its own, reciting again the age-old words. The words! Each word, every note and breath sprang to life new-born: bright and fresh as creation, whole, untainted, innocent.

To hear him sing… Oh, to hear him was to witness the birthing of a living thing. The song was alive!

Those crowded beneath Bervach's roof that night heard the work of a true bard, as few ever would. And they were blessed by it, as few are ever blessed in this sorry age.

When the song was finished, and Merlin laid the still-quivering harp aside at last, it was late indeed. But it seemed that the evening had passed in a blink, the little space of time between one heartbeat and the next; it seemed – and I believe in some way it did happen – that while Merlin sang we who heard him were lost to time, having passed through it and beyond to that place where time no longer touches us.