The Bretland Trilogy

Chapter 5-1

Din-Gonwy, cantref of Rhôs, North Wales, 835 AD

Din-Gonwy, cantref of Rhôs, North Wales, 835 ADExtremely anxious, Alun held his breath as Myrddin laid the scabbard across his knees and watched the aquiline features assume a rapt expression. The seer began to rock gently from the waist and uttered a low moan as if in the grip of ecstasy. Like a bard of old, he chanted a mysterious rhyme:

Just as tales of history are told

Just as tales of history are toldBefore the events themselves unfold

Before the events themselves unfoldSo, the artist creates in garnet and gold

So, the artist creates in garnet and goldWhat the eye must yet behold.

What the eye must yet behold.Thus, some ancient power spoke through Myrddin, confounding Alun’s fear of the seer’s wrath after his unwitting complicity in disobedience.

Every step towards the seer’s dwelling had cost him an untold effort of will, knowing that Myrddin had ordered the crystal to be enclosed in filigree work. Yet, here he was now, looking at Trefor’s creation and seeming to accept it as some preordained masterpiece.

Suddenly, the misty pale-blue eyes returned from a distant place of imagination to fix Alun’s coal-black orbs. The austere, wrinkled face lit up in a fulsome but world-weary smile.

“Saint Dwynwen guided Trefor ap Gwythyr’s hand. The pommel is beyond earthly conception, Alun. Show me your right arm; hold out your hand.” The seer drew the sword and stared at the snake writhing up the blade, its maw open and hissing, the fangs revealed as if ready to strike and inject poison. The jet-black eyes seemed to mesmerise the seer for a moment. At last, in a wavering voice, Myrddin said, “The snake, too, is an otherworldly creation, boy. Stare at its head before a battle and draw forth its power. You shall strike as deadly swift as the serpent!” Shakily, his bone-thin arm held the sword aloft, too heavy for him and surrendered the hilt to Alun. “Plant the blade into the ground, son of Drystan, grandson of Iolyn ap Celyn. We must pray together.”

Alun obeyed blindly, driving the steel into the hard earth, where it oscillated for a moment, the splendorous pommel sparkling and flashing blood red in the weak evening sunlight.

“Help me kneel, Alun.” The ageless seer held out an arm to the youth, who took the frail weight and gently lowered Myrddin to bow his head next to the sword. “Kneel here.” A long, bony forefinger pointed to the other side of the weapon so that the two men faced each other across the hilt. Immediately in a surprisingly deep voice for such a puny figure, the seer intoned in an ancient tongue Santes Dwynwen, bendithia wieder y cleddyf hwn a gwna ef yn anorchfygol mewn brwydr.

Santes Dwynwen, bendithia wieder y cleddyf hwn a gwna ef yn anorchfygol mewn brwydr.Alun understood but two words, and in response, from the pommel, a shaft of white light speared into the sky, causing both men to shield their eyes quickly.

After the light dwindled, the seer confirmed that he had invoked Saint Dwynwen—Santes Dwynwen, the only two words Alun had understood— “the saint has conceded her blessing to the bearer of this sword. You are blessed in battle, Alun ap Drystan, Saviour of Gwynedd! Your triumphant march begins with your preparations. I see from your iron muscles that they are in progress. Be not in a hurry! The saint also granted me a vision for the battle prince. Tell him to walk the strand by the estuary at dawn on the morrow. Now strap on your sword and never be parted from it, not even when you sleep! Help me to rise.”

Santes Dwynwen, YouStanding unsteadily in front of Alun, the ageless seer stared into the youth’s obsidian black eyes, and with a strangled cry, his knees buckled: Myrddin fainted. His frail body lay at Alun’s feet. The youth gazed in anguish at the grey-mantled figure, lying like a discarded bundle of clothes by the wayside. Numb for a moment, he stood motionless, incapable of reacting. What had happened? What had the descendant of the druids seen to have such a devastating effect? These and other cascading thoughts passed through his head before it told him to fetch water. Pouring water from a leather bottle into a tin cup found on a table next to a half-consumed loaf of black bread, Alun hastened outdoors, gently lifted the seer’s head and tilted the drinking vessel until water seeped through the white lips. The seer’s eyes blinked open and looked fearfully into Alun’s concerned gaze as if seeking reassurance.

What had happened? What had the descendant of the druids seen to have such a devastating effect?“Help me up, boy!”

Alun grinned and raised the ancient seer with little effort before accompanying his tottering steps to the bench. As soon as Myrddin was safely seated with his back to the stone wall, Alun went over and picked up the tin cup, handing it to the seer to take another sip.

“What happened, Myrddin ap Bren?”

“I stared into the snake’s eyes—black as raven feathers! It was a shock, and I must have fainted. I was about to give you my blessing, boy, when I saw the Serpent of Death! You are, and yet are no longer, Alun ap Drystan.”

You are,and yet are no longer“Of course, I am Alun ap Drystan, Myrddin. Why do you forever speak in riddles?”

The seer moaned, “I was present at your birth and know who you are. But it is ordained, Alun, that you will be another. Your soul has changed. You are an instrument—a vessel—whether you like it or not!”

Alun frowned and stared over to the Isle of Ynys Dryyll. Its familiar shape with the memory of what he had achieved reassured him. The sword pommel drew his left hand, where it rested, tapping the crystalline energy, giving him strength, and easing his worries and perplexity. He would not be intimidated by the bard’s strange words. His voice sounded oddly mature to his ears. “Maybe I should bless you, Myrddin ap Bren.” He laid his hands on the frail, bony shoulders. “I promise to obey your instructions, beloved elder, may Saint Dwynwen’s face shine upon, and keep you!”

youMyrddin’s eyes twinkled, and before Alun could react, the ancient seer planted a kiss on the centre of his forehead. “Go with this old man’s blessing and remember the message for the battle prince.

(The following morning)

(The following morning)The rising sun cast a golden-orange spear over the sea. The waves seized it, and, running, bore it to shore, where it suffused a lone, sleepy fisherman, piercing him with sudden wakefulness. Preparing to heave his boat into the heavy sea, Drystan ignored the flotsam that floated and bobbed in the estuary. His mind was on his traps and nets, and he didn’t bother with the gifts of an unforgiving ocean. Cadfael, on the other hand, with no routine task to occupy his thoughts, drifted aimlessly along the estuary. Nobody in his right mind disobeyed Myrddin’s orders, so when Alun passed on the seer’s instructions, it was inevitable that he would walk the strand at dawn.

Cadfael followed the age-old custom of salvaging the sea’s gifts. Once over the high-tide line, anything deposited there became the rightful property of the finder. In this way, Cadfael became the owner of two large and well-made oars. He murmured that they must have come from a sizable vessel. So too, he waded in and rolled a barrel up beyond the tideline. He wondered if it contained ale. More likely, seawater had infiltrated, and he was due for a disappointment.

Leaving his trophies to be admired or envied by others, he proceeded along the estuary, enjoying the beauty of the golden-tinged orange sky with its promise of a sunny day. He stared towards the tinted sea and made out the silhouette of Drystan aboard his boat. The figure, dark against the sun’s glare, waved a hand, and Cadfael exchanged the greeting before Drystan bent to haul on a rope. “May it be a plentiful catch,” the youth wished on behalf of his friend’s father.

He walked on towards the mouth of the estuary when suddenly, he spied a bundle of clothes washed onto the sandy mud. Or was it? Nay, it was a man, lying on his side in the pose of someone who has dragged himself out of the water.

Cadfael hurried over to him and bent anxiously to peer at the ashen face. The man gazed up with one dying eye and, with the dregs of his strength, weakly raised a finger to point at the youth’s armlet, then let it flop to indicate his sword. Cadfael saw the lips move. He put his ear to the moribund man’s mouth and heard what sounded like “Ta det!” but what language was it? It reminded him of “Take it!” What? The sword? Could he truly mean that? The effort proved too much for the tall stranger. In vain did Cadfael seek a pulse. He knew it was pointless because he had watched the light of life fade away in the blue eye.

Had the stranger so eagerly wished to tell him to take the weapon with his dying breath and motions? Cadfael studied the man, his face grey and lifeless under his blond whiskers. A warrior’s face, strong and determined, would never again confront his foes. The man wore an animal skin around his shoulders, maybe a wolf or bear pelt, probably wolf because it was grey. He had leather boots, linen breeches, and a red tunic with a brown hem. From a thick leather belt hung a scabbard with the sword the man had indicated. Ta det! Did the dead man want him to take his weapon? What was it Myrddin had said? ‘The sword will come to you’.

Ta det!‘The sword will come to you’Reverentially, respecting the dead man’s former ownership, Cadfael bent to draw the blade. He had pulled it only a few inches free of its leather sheath when he gasped. The low sunlight unerringly picked out runes incised into the steel. The golden light made them even more entrancing. The youth stared in astonishment. These were not random runes—he recognised them. They were why the dying man had bravely forced himself to indicate the armlet. Whoever he was, he had seen the same sequence of runes! His fading vision cannot have been good but sufficient to make out the same pattern.

In his memory, Cadfael re-viewed the scene: the dying man’s finger first indicated the circlet and then, undoubtedly, pointed to his sword. Then had come the words “Ta det!” The youth did not doubt that the last wish was for him to possess the weapon. It must be the sword that the seer had promised him. With infinite care and respect, Cadfael withdrew the blade from its sheath and brandished it. The steel flashed bluey-orange in the dawn rays and felt perfectly balanced in his hand. He brought the hilt close to his face and studied the runes again. He peered at his armlet and mentally checked them off in sequence. No mistake! They were identical. Then, as if by inspiration, he knew what to do. He laid the sword on the strand and wriggled off his gold circlet.

“Ta det!”Carefully taking the golden circle in his left hand, he picked up the sword with his right. Shakily, he rose to his feet, dragged his right foot behind and placed his left ahead, bending at the knee. He shuffled his rear leg backwards so that he appeared to be at the culmination of a forward lunge. He had chosen this position to slide the armlet over the blade more easily down as far as the incised runes.