Praise for
A LAND BEYOND RAVENS
“…one of the most historically realistic Arthurian novels ever written, a thoroughly mature work that belongs beside such classics as Rosemary Sutcliffe’s Sword at Sunset and Mary Stewart’s Merlin trilogy.” —ReaderViews
“…Guler possesses a particular gift of blending history, adventure, mystery and passionate love into a story so engaging that one can’t stop reading…” —Crystal Reviews
“…intriguing and suspenseful…” —Sharon Kay Penman, NY Times bestselling author of Here Be Dragons and Devil’s Brood
“Guler’s imaginative and dynamic storytelling helps fill a gap in the corpus of Holy Grail fiction… a thoughtful and compelling voice.” —US Review of Books
“Guler writes with a strong voice and vibrant prose…a master at creating unique, unusual characters…” —Historical Novel Review
A LAND BEYOND RAVENS
BOOK 4 OF THE MACSEN’S TREASURE SERIES
by
Kathleen Cunningham Guler
SMASHWORDS EDITION
A Land Beyond Ravens
© 2009 by Kathleen Cunningham Guler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to Permissions Department, Bardsong Press, P.O. Box 775396, Steamboat Springs, CO 80477.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Originally published in hardcover by Bardsong Press
Library of Congress Catalog Control Number: 2009903673
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Kathleen Cunningham Guler
Into the Path of Gods
In the Shadow of Dragons
The Anvil Stone
“Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
And precipices show untrodden green,
There is a budding morrow in midnight,
There is a triple sight in blindness keen.”
— John Keats
Macsen’s Treasure
Torque of gold, born of earth
Turned by strong and calloused hands
Heavy grace on necks of kings
Returned by blood, torque of earth.
Spear of wind, born of air
Chased with lines of twining life
Swallow-swift in soaring flight
Removed by stealth, spear of air.
Sword of light, born of fire
Forged with strength of ancient magic
Cries both with life and with death
Cast to stone, sword of fire.
Grail of life, born of water
Deep and wide to hold the source
Empty but for time and memory
Forever lost, grail of water.
Crown of kings, born of gods
Bind torque and spear, sword and grail
So walk in honor, before the shadow
And journey into the path of gods.
— Myrddin Emrys
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like offer my profound thanks to the following people:
To Jodi Buchan, Sandra Sherrod and Ellen Bonnifield for taking the time to read the manuscript and offer invaluable comments, suggestions and encouragement. To my editor Ann Gilpin for her patience and prodding me on when I was getting behind. To Laurel Bradshaw for her help with Welsh translations and pronunciation, diolch yn fawr. To master swordmaker Rick Pallaziol of Weapons of Choice Theatrical for sharing his detailed expertise on forged medieval swords, including practical tips not found in any manual. To the teacher known as Tulia Scholastica of the Nova Roma website for her persistence in finding a Latin translation of what at first looked like a simple sentence but turned out to be a difficult line to convert as many English words do not have equivalents in Latin.
Many thanks once again to Harriet Freiberger and the Thursday afternoon gang: it’s been another great adventure. Please know that the fearless critiques, tidbits of knowledge, encouragement and friendship are treasured.
And without question, gratitude to my husband Peter, who has thus far survived my obsession for writing and history and is still willing to offer his unique insights collected from his travels all across the world. Those insights have greatly contributed to my work over the years.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE/GLOSSARY
This list should help with names and places that are difficult to pronounce. Pronunciations are approximate.
Aberffraw AB-er-frau (Cadwallon’s new capital)
Annwn AN-noon (Celtic Otherworld)
Bod-ys-gollen Bod-us-GAHL-en (Cadwallon’s stronghold)
Bwlch y Saethau Boolk uh SAI-thai (The Pass of Arrows)
Cadwallon Cad-WAHL-on (King of Gwynedd)
Carnedd CAR-neth (Grave)
Cwm y Llan Coom Uh Hlan (Valley of the Church)
Cymraeg cum-RAIG (Brittonic language that became Old Welsh)
Cymreig cum-RAYG (Name for tribes that became the Welsh kingdoms)
Dinas Beris DEE-nas BEAR-is (Marcus ap Iorwerth’s stronghold)
Dinas Emrys DEE-nas EM-rees (Uther’s mountain stronghold)
Drysi DRUH-see (Claerwen’s sister)
Galan Hydref GAH-lan HUD-rev (Beginning of Autumn—1 Aug)
Nos Galan Gaeaf Noce GAH-lan GAI-av (Eve of the first day of Winter—31 Oct)
Gwion GWEE-on (A monk)
Gwynedd GWIN-eth (Kingdom in northwest Wales)
Myrddin MUR-thin (Merlin the Enchanter)
Powys POE-is (Kingdom in northeast Wales)
Uther Ü-ther (High King of Britain)
Y Gwalch Haearn Uh Gwalch Hairn (The Iron Hawk)
Ysgawen Us-GAW-en (Sacred site on Ynys Môn)
Ynys Môn UH-nis Moan (Island off the north coast of Gwynedd)
Ynys Witrin UH-nis WIT-rin (Marshy area surrounding Avalon)
The most noteworthy differences in pronunciation between Welsh and English are as follows: The Welsh “dd” is like “th,” as in them. A “w” is either a consonant or a vowel; as a vowel it has an oo sound. The “ch” is hard, as in the Scottish loch. The “ll” is not found in English but can be approximated as a very rough combination of hl. And “Celtic” is correctly pronounced with a hard C: Keltic.
PROLOGUE
Avalon, Ynys Witrin
Spring, AD 479
Whispers pulsed in the stillness of the afternoon. Unheard yet sensed, they gathered like memories that refused to be forgotten. Unafraid, Claerwen followed them up the path. She ought to go down to the timber hall instead—her husband waited there. But…
Only a few moments, she reasoned, and Marcus was a patient man. He would understand, now that the reason for their journey to Ynys Witrin was done. She left the track and passed into a dense grove of apple and pear trees, all in full bloom with delicate white and pink flowers. Their fragrance filled the air with a sweetness so strong Claerwen felt as if she were wading through it.
The sound of trickling water led her to a small cleared space. On the far side a spring welled up, stones laid around it to prevent visitors from stumbling into it. Orange-red in color, the water spilled through a wide groove on the lower side and flowed away in a shallow channel. She remembered the sacred well’s name: the Blood Spring, from the blood of the earth.
A few paces from the spring stood a stone pedestal. A wide shallow grail rested on top. Of gold, it glowed in the diffused light. Though simple in shape, its outer surface was embellished with incised lines that formed swirls and intricate interlaced patterns. Silver beads, polished to look like pearls, decorated the edge.
The pulse of whispers grew stronger. Claerwen hesitated to step closer. This was the heart of Avalon, the most sacred shrine to those, like her, who belonged to the old ways of faith. She had always thought she would feel at ease here, hidden among the mists of Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass. For many years she had claimed fire in the head, the gift of second sight, the same bond to the gods that all the island’s residents claimed, but standing here she grew uncomfortable, even unnerved, as if the palpitating air were ready to pounce.
Claerwen straightened her shoulders. So be it, this was not a place for her. And to visit the grove was not the reason she and Marcus had traveled to Ynys Witrin. They had been charged with the secret transport of Gwyar, daughter of the high king Uther Pendragon and his queen Igraine. The young girl of six summers had become a target of political factions that sought to take her hostage or even to assassinate her. In fear Igraine had decided her daughter must be taken to the Lady of Avalon and raised in obscurity.
Another child in hiding. Like Uther’s first-born, Arthur. Claerwen wondered where the boy might be by now. He would turn eight in the next winter. Still so young. She thought of Myrddin Emrys as well, the king’s nephew and Britain’s last high druid, a powerful man and a longtime friend, who had taken Arthur from Igraine’s birthing chamber the night the boy was born. Few had been entrusted with the knowledge that Myrddin was raising Arthur—the boy was an even greater target for assassins than the high king himself.
So many years to wait until the boy would be old enough to succeed Uther and become the great king Myrddin had prophesied he would. Claerwen remembered the glimpse she’d had of Arthur only two years before: a fine strong boy with the same brown hair and vivid blue eyes as his father. He had already showed the heart of a king then.
Her mind drifted to another boy, this one with black hair and eyes like his father. At seven or eight summers he’d had a heart as big as the sky. He should have grown into a man as good and kind and courageous as his father, but that chance had been stolen from him. All that was left were ashes and a handful of memories. Please the gods, she prayed, that Uther’s son would not be cut down like Marcus’s boy.
Claerwen choked down the knot in her throat.
Her gaze fell on the grail once more. She needed to leave, yet she knew she must approach it. Only one grail existed more striking than this, one with jewels that matched a torque and a spearhead, a sword and a crown—all sacred ceremonial symbols of the ancient high kings, together known as Macsen’s Treasure and named for the heroic warrior Macsen Wledig of more than a hundred years earlier. She had not actually seen Macsen’s grail except when the fire had shown it to her many years past.
Wary, Claerwen drew up to the pedestal. The grail was filled with water from the spring, petals from the blossoms floated on its surface. Her reflection gazed back, her green-blue eyes, pale face and tawny-brown hair given a rusty cast.
In the utter stillness the water suddenly rippled. Claerwen’s breath drained away and her lungs strained, unable to recapture it. Her temples thudded like druids’ drums. This was the power of the gods, she understood, emanating from the vessel. She felt it draw down into her bones, to her core, reverberant, possessive.
“Lady Claerwen,” a soothing feminine voice spoke from the trees.
Claerwen stepped back, stunned, then her breath drew in with ease. She looked up. The lined face of the Lady of Avalon appeared like an apparition floating among the flowers, but in truth the tall elegant woman in flowing white robes had followed her to the grove. Unnerved again, Claerwen wished to depart even more, but she dared not be rude; the Lady’s exquisite civility precluded that. She gathered her composure and gave a reverent nod.
The Lady moved to the grail and placed her fingers along its edge. Her gaze lowered to the water then lifted.
“As that young child’s future lies with me to nurture it,” she said of Gwyar, “the fate of the true grail rests with you, Lady Claerwen.” With a gracious smile the woman walked away.
New foreboding swept Claerwen. The true grail? This one? Or Macsen’s grail that she had just been thinking about? Why? What did it mean? She gazed into the water for several long moments, hoping for an answer, but all she sensed were the souls of the ancestors whispering warnings from the shadows around her.
Murmuring voices—real voices—broke into her thoughts. Glancing towards the spring, she saw a handful of men dressed in plain brown robes. Each wore a wooden cross hung around the neck and they spoke together in low tones, their eyes sharp on her.
Christian monks? In Avalon? When had they come? She had heard nothing, seen no one, except the Lady. She pulled up her cloak’s hood against the staring eyes.
Another male voice, this one deep and familiar, called her name and she turned towards it. Marcus strode out of the trees from the other side. His eyes flicked from her to the monks and back as she moved across to him. Like her, he was dressed in the manner of the peasantry for their secret journey to Ynys Witrin. She took his hand, thick and rough, strong, a warrior’s hand. The sense of foreboding eased.
“Why are they here?” she asked softly as he guided her back to the hill’s path. She gave a faint tilt of her head towards the monks.
He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. “Observation?”
She smiled at his subtle jest. “I don’t believe that any more than you do.” She gripped his hand tighter and silently thanked the gods they were leaving.
Even so, she felt the whispers of warning follow all the way out of the gates of Ynys Witrin.
CHAPTER 1
Bod-ys-gollen, Rhôs, Gwynedd
Summer, AD 486
Sometimes a king just has to be jarred loose.
Marcus ap Iorwerth, slouched in a chair padded with thick sheepskin, shook his head at the thought. Not an easy task to break stubborn thinking. It could be done—if he could discover the right incentive.
He continued to assess Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd, seated on the other side of his low-roofed private chamber that stank of damp earth and mold.
“Prove it,” Marcus said. “Prove to me the war band you levied for the high king won’t be sent to take Decanglian lands instead.” Tired of arguing, he folded his arms and settled into a caustic glare.
Cadwallon’s face, though solemn, remained otherwise unchanged. Marcus knew he could break the cold return stare. He’d done it—how many times now? It wasn’t that Cadwallon was stupid, not at all. He could sound reasonable, even clear minded. But reasonable for the king of Gwynedd amounted to words that said one thing and meant another, not quite a lie, but rather a twist of the meaning so that truth and lie could almost be the same.
Almost.
Marcus knew better. He had long come to expect nothing different. Cadwallon would never learn. So few of Britain’s many kings ever did. Not the hard way, not in any way. Not in all the six-and-twenty years he’d spent wheedling, manipulating, cajoling them, all in the hope to make them understand. Gods of the earth, perhaps they were all just stupid. Regardless, he had to find new ways to jar them loose from their near-sighted thinking, and in the last few months this man had become one of the most stubborn.
With a mild grunt Cadwallon leaned back in his chair. He dropped his gaze to his fingertips, now spread out and tapping together.
Ah, notch off another broken stare. Marcus’s mouth flattened into a line beneath his thick moustache. “Prove it,” he repeated.
Cadwallon’s dull brown eyes lifted again. “How? Shall I swear to you? I’m supposed to be your king.”
Marcus released a sardonic grin he’d been holding back. “Swear to me, swear to the high king. Swear to all your mistresses if you like. Makes no difference. You’ll break the oath.”
“Never—”
“Always.”
“You want to tell me I lie?”
Marcus slid out of the chair and crossed the dim chamber’s hard earthen floor. On a trestle where a map had been spread out, daylight streamed from a short wide window. He pushed the parchment into the rectangle of light and traced a fingertip along the line that represented the River Clwyd and the center of Decanglian lands, a region bordering Gwynedd to the east. He aimed another smoldering glare at Cadwallon. “Prove it.”
The king picked a piece of lint from his tunic and flicked it aside to float among the dust.
Deliberate silence, Marcus knew. He straightened and ran a hand through his black hair from hairline to the ends that fell past his shoulders. At one-and-forty winters—five years older than Cadwallon—he knew the casual gesture would needle the king’s vanity. Salted moderately with grey, his copious mane contrasted sharply with Cadwallon’s thinning dark brown hair, coated with beeswax in the hope of keeping a shiny pate from peering through. It was so stiff that Marcus wondered whether it would shatter if touched.
Cadwallon’s eyes narrowed and contempt hinted on his lips. “Why are you here, Marcus ap Iorwerth? In the open? Not in one of your infernal disguises? Or have you run out of people to spy on?” His voice took on a whispery huskiness that Marcus always likened to the rustling of old dust-filled thatch.
“Ah, let me consider this.” Marcus lifted his hands, palms upward. “Could it be you think that you need that land?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Cadwallon sniffed, his thin mouth and wide squat bovine nose forming a momentary sneer.
Marcus sat on the trestle’s edge. “The only people who need that land are the Decangli who’ve claimed it under Powys’s kings for a thousand years and more. They’re our own people. Not the Irish outsiders you and your father and grandfather expelled out of necessity over the years.”
He reached back and picked up a small pouch of soft leather. Uther Pendragon’s insignia marked it as the daily news dispatch. He shook it at Cadwallon. “Don’t you read these from the high king? How close the Saxons are? Powys is our eastern frontier now. It’s only two or three days’ hard march to reach—”
“I demand respect from you,” Cadwallon interrupted. “Do not forget that I’ve waived the tribute from your lands in return for your…services.” He leaned forward in his chair. “How many years since you were released from exile? Ten or so by now? And you were gone five years—five long years? How would you like to be sent into exile once more?”
Marcus opened his throat to let his voice drop into its fullest depth. “And I remind you—with respect—as I have reminded you often, the high king’s war bands are stretched thinner every year. You would gain more by standing with him, not against him. Without Uther you’ll be swearing to the Saxons—if they allow you to live.”
Cadwallon sat back and seemed to ponder this. Marcus studied him. They had always been at odds, and though he had been able to keep the king in check for the most part, Marcus faced more difficulty each time. This would worsen. Cadwallon had often threatened forms of punishment as now but had never carried out any of them. To lose a valuable and reliable spy would gain him nothing. And because Marcus was considered Uther’s spy first, to punish him could earn Cadwallon the high king’s discipline as well.
Cadwallon stretched out his arms sideways. “Why do you care?” he asked. “You’re a prince—however minor—but a prince regardless.”
A prince. Marcus squinted at the king. Being a prince meant little, an inherited title that held no power, no wealth. If anything, it had been an obstacle. The only true power he had came from his talent as a spy.
A ram’s horn called outside. Marcus recognized it as an announcement of an arrival at the stronghold’s front gates. Must be someone of rank, he reckoned from the commotion that followed. He watched Cadwallon rise, pick off another bit of lint but not go to the window. Nor did his face offer any indication of an expected guest. Marcus mused, as he did each time he saw the king, that although the man was not inordinately tall, his arms were so long his fingertips almost reached his knees. This had earned him the epithet of Lawhir—Cadwallon Long Hand. Should have been Cadwallon Short Mind.
“I think…in truth,” Marcus went on, “you’re afraid the high king will take control of Powys if its king dies in battle. And then he’ll come after Gwynedd. So you want to step a bit closer, to fill the void, am I right?”
Cadwallon whirled around and slammed a hand down on the trestle. “You pay me no respect! What do you want from me?”
“An answer! Prove those men—”
“There are no men of mine in the land of the Decangli.”
“Gah!” Marcus spit. “You twist the words every time.”
Cadwallon turned away from him. The room went silent except for voices that murmured outside the chamber doors. Marcus recognized one from a bishop of the new religion he had seen lurking a number of times in the court. The man probably waited for permission to enter the chambers. In that instant it struck Marcus that over the years the bishops had learned to gain land for their graveyards and religious houses in return for paying tribute. That payment was bled from their growing number of followers. How convenient.
Marcus folded his arms again. “Or is it that you’ve given away too much land to those simpering monks out there,” he tested, “and that bull of a bishop who leads them around like so many lapdogs? Aye, I’ve seen them in the court. And I know you don’t give a bloody fart for their god any more than those of our own.”
The king turned back to him, his face hard.
That stung a nerve, Marcus noted. Cadwallon, looking for a way to raise payment for additional war bands to take the fertile lands between Gwynedd and Powys, just might have cooperated with the bishop. Give a little land in one place in return for a portion of tribute enough to pay warriors to take a far bigger piece of land elsewhere. But Marcus also knew the Christian religious houses stockpiled wealth in secret while vowing poverty and wealth meant power. The tribute paid out was little next to that coming in. Over time, who—in truth—would be in control?
The bishop spoke again. Marcus strained to understand the words but they were indistinguishable.
Cadwallon listened as well. His eyes lifted, a smirk in them.
Deadly, Marcus observed. And intriguing.
“I’ll stay out of the Decangli, if you think that’s what I’m doing,” Cadwallon said. A long pause followed.
“If?” Marcus prompted.
“You know something about Uther.”
“Oh, I do?”
“Tell me of his son.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Uther has no son.”
“Now you lie.”
“Prove it.”
“His son lives. You tell me where, I stay out of the Decangli.”
Marcus smoothed his moustache and snorted a laugh. Bloody bastard. “You’re wasting your time if you believe that,” he said.
“No one knows more than you of all that goes on in Britain,” Cadwallon countered. “Deny it.”
Silence choked the room. Even the air seemed to wait for an answer. In the corridor the bishop had gone silent as well. Aye, Marcus thought, wouldn’t he like to know as much as Cadwallon or any of the other kings who believed the rumors that Uther had fathered a son and had kept the child hidden since his birth? Cadwallon, like those other kings of the same rank, coveted the high kingship. To them the possible existence of any heir must be removed before Uther’s death. Marcus imagined the Saxons licking their lips in anticipation as well. And then the increasing power of the Christian church loomed. In some places it had emerged with the strength of a warrior king. Gods, when Uther passed the fight for control of Britain would be hideous.
“You know the boy exists.” Cadwallon’s voice, though soft, pierced the quiet with its clarity.
“I know nothing,” Marcus said through his teeth.
“Out of my way!” a shout roared from the corridor outside. Cadwallon stiffened and stared at the double doors to his chambers. Shuffling rustled beyond them then the bishop spoke, his tone apologetic. The latch rattled without releasing. More shuffling and an expletive followed.
Uther’s voice: cold, hostile.
Marcus lifted his gaze to the ceiling, winced and backed past an upright timber beam where he had hung the baldric that held his sword. A moment later the latch gave and the doors swung in. Both slammed aside, one wobbled back partway.
Trailing muddy footprints, the high king tramped straight to Cadwallon. From the stiff, stooped way he moved, he was clearly exhausted. He removed his helmet and threw it into the sheepskin-covered chair.
“Where are the men you were to send to me?” he shouted at Cadwallon. “Answer!”
Marcus stared. He had not seen the king in years, though he had passed information on to him through secret channels almost monthly during that time. By the gods, he thought, Uther had grown old. He had no notion of the king’s actual age, but he seemed far older than he should be. And he wheezed with every breath. The rumors of chronic illness were true.
“Well? Cadwallon of Gwynedd?” Uther raged on. “I’ve come from Powys, near Caer Guricon. Do you remember—Cadell’s stronghold? You should have sent three hundred men there more than a month ago. A full war band!”
Marcus held motionless in the shadows. In spite of the high king’s decline, he was still formidable. Speechless, Cadwallon merely stared.
Uther thumped the younger man’s chest with the pommel of his sword. “I know you levied them in spring. That information was reported to me. The source was reliable.”
Cadwallon’s glare shifted past the beam, the stinging desire for retaliation in his eyes.
Uther saw it and swung around. The surprise in his face swiftly changed to suspicion. Caught in the light, his eyes were as blue as ever.
Vivid blue—like those of the son that dared not be acknowledged.
Marcus lifted down his sword and stepped from behind the beam. “Perhaps you will be more convincing. He won’t listen to me.” He spoke with thick deference and hoped his tone would defuse Uther’s anger, but the suspicion deepened in the saggy, seamed face, the ragged grey brows plunged downward. Marcus remembered how exhaustion often led the high king to be ill-humored and unreasonable. Advancing age and illness would make this worse than ever. Let him vent it on Cadwallon.
With one last blistering glare, Marcus turned to the king of Gwynedd. “You’ve been warned. Think on it.” He nodded at Uther and strode out.
CHAPTER 2
Bod-ys-gollen
Summer, AD 486
That morning had been so peaceful. Marcus gazed across Cadwallon’s stronghold of Bod-ys-gollen and exhaled in disgust. Now the timber-beamed enclosure milled with soldiers from Uther’s war bands, along with the women who habitually followed them, several loose yapping dogs and a group of merchants. Forever alert for trade, the last had formed a makeshift marketplace, their raucous calls that hawked food and wares louder than the dogs.
Always an uproar at Uther’s heels. Marcus shook his head and started across the yard. Some things never change. To add to the turbulence, a summer squall was blowing in from the Irish Sea as well. Grey-brown dust swirled up to a sky that had been clear only an hour earlier and now filled with snarling black clouds. The wind, though not cold, smelled of rain.
Disappointed that Uther’s interruption had cost the chance to discover a bargain between Cadwallon and the bishop, Marcus knew no second chance would ever come. He had already expected the confrontation to fail. And Uther’s wrath, though redoubtable, would not prevent an invasion of Decanglian lands. Out of the high king’s presence, Cadwallon would do as he pleased.
No point in staying any longer. Marcus buckled on his baldric, the sword angled across his back, and started for the smithy near the front gates. His grey horse had thrown a shoe and with luck, he hoped, the smith was finished with replacing it. He’d rather ride out the coming storm in open country than in the stronghold, but as he neared the forge he saw the smith had only begun to fit the new shoe—at least a half-hour to wait. He glanced at the sky. By then rain would come.
Ah well, get something to eat. Marcus turned back for the row of merchants and wound his way through the clumps of people in the yard. At one of the carts he found a man cooking strips of venison over a brazier. The meat-rich smoke spreading upward reminded him of the hunger in his belly.
“Two, please.” Marcus showed a thumb and forefinger to make sure the merchant understood him over the noise and he dropped a piece of copper into the man’s palm. He pulled a small eating knife from a sheath on his belt and skewered both chunks of meat on its blade.
Several men approached the cart as Marcus strolled away from it. Two were young and wore the insignia of a man he knew as Cynyr Ceinfarfog, a clan-lord of Irish descent in Dyfed, one of the southern kingdoms of the Cymreig tribes. Odd for them to be in Cadwallon’s stronghold, Marcus noted, and they wore nothing that marked them as soldiers. Another man, quite older, seemed attached to them but showed no insignia at all. The man glanced at him then turned aside and ordered their meal.
So, what next? Marcus bit off a piece of meat. Tender enough, though a little more salt would have made it taste better. He pondered whether he should have used one of his many disguises. Or should he have come in his guise of an itinerant blacksmith, a ruse he had been running for years? His talent for forging fine steel blades had easily bought him entrance to a circuit of many strongholds, not only within Gwynedd but in most of the surrounding kingdoms as well. In return he had gained valuable, if unwitting, contacts whose gossip swelled his knowledge of the kingdoms’ innerworkings. This he passed on to Uther or used to control those out of line like Cadwallon. With the growing threat of invasion into the Decangli over the past few months, Marcus had used those contacts to spread false rumors of plots to assassinate Cadwallon. His hope had been that the king would keep his war bands here in Rhôs, the region of Gwynedd surrounding the stronghold. For a while that had worked but the effect had gradually worn off.
Then Uther had demanded a levy, which gave Cadwallon a legitimate excuse to raise a full war band. And if they marched through the coveted territory on the way east to Caer Guricon…
“Damn,” Marcus muttered and gnawed off another bite. With little time to aid the Decangli, he had thought it worthwhile to try to pound some decent reasoning into Cadwallon. Now he needed to find another way. But doing what? And where? With any move he made, even in disguise, he’d be the only one suspected. He had told his wife Claerwen he’d be home in two or three days. Now that looked likely to change.
The men from Dyfed caught Marcus’s attention again. The older man had an air about him that felt vaguely familiar. Frowning, Marcus swallowed, wiped juice from his mouth and bit off another piece of venison. Tall and thin, the man wore a tunic and breeches of plain brown wool and carried a cloak of the same, nothing out of the ordinary. Grey hair streaked with white, typically long but neatly kept. Brown eyes that crackled with…with what? Not mischief, exactly. More like a half-hidden all-knowing haughtiness. The man spoke with his companions, walked off a few paces, stopped again.
“We’ll meet at the smithy in an hour,” he said, his voice raised.
Why so familiar? Marcus asked himself again and took the last bite.
“And Aradr, keep away from the girls,” the man chided, humor in his tone. The taller lad offered a smirk of amusement.
Marcus smiled at the exchange, then the name struck him. Aradr? He stared at the tall, brown-haired young man, lean, muscular. And blue eyes—intelligent, vivid blue eyes in an angular face that could have been Uther Pendragon’s when young.
“Gods of the sky,” Marcus swore and dropped his stare before it might be noticed. The name Aradr was a deliberate corruption to conceal the lad’s true name: Arthur. Uther’s son—in one of the worst possible places.
Marcus squinted at the older man. This had to be Myrddin Emrys in a disguise. In truth, for Myrddin to look plain and indistinguishable was a disguise. More commonly known as Merlin the Enchanter, he often stood out in a crowd because of his oddness. The last time Marcus had seen him, nearly ten years earlier, the man had worn a mantle of ratty black feathers.
Marcus licked the knife clean and slid it back into its sheath. Following Myrddin, he detoured around a pack of begging monks then waded through an assortment of screaming children making swordplay with tiny wooden practice wasters.
“Halt!” A little boy leapt out in front of him with one of the mock weapons.
Maelgwn, Cadwallon’s son. “Go on. Out of my way,” Marcus told him and kept moving. Only six winters old and this was the most spoiled whelp he’d ever seen. He clamped his mouth shut before he blurted an epithet he’d later regret.
“Fight or die!” The child chased after him, the waster drawn back and aimed for Marcus’s left knee. The joint had been damaged in a long-ago ambush and had left him with some pain and a slight limp ever since.
Marcus turned. The waster whipped around. In one swift swipe he grabbed it and yanked it out of Maelgwn’s grip.
The boy gazed up, his mouth open and ready to shriek that someone dared take his weapon.
“A good warrior,” Marcus said, “knows who his enemy is and who is not, Master Maelgwn. Have you studied which is which?” He handed back the piece of wood.
Confounded, the child gave no answer. With a faint smile Marcus winked at the other children over Maelgwn’s head. Their faces lit like lanterns. His grin broadened, theirs followed suit, and they swept Maelgwn back into their noisy ranks.
“Damn,” Marcus muttered again. Attention he had not needed, however brief. Now, where had Myrddin gone?
He turned again and almost stepped into someone wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood up.
“That child should be fed to the Saxons.” Myrddin smiled, his face barely visible within the hood.
Marcus let out his breath. “Absolutely.”
In silence Myrddin led Marcus from the yard, around the side of the smithy and into a secluded corner where the blacksmith stored materials and old tools.
Marcus caught the Enchanter’s arm. “You’ve got to get him out of here,” he spit in a harsh whisper.
“Ah, you recognized him.”
“Of course I did. The face and blue eyes are unmistakable. Do you know how dangerous this place is for him?”
“It’s dangerous everywhere,” Myrddin said.
“Then why here? Because of Uther?”
“No…that wasn’t planned. But he needs to experience court intrigue, politics, something more than tutors can give—”
“Real life?” Marcus cut in. He almost laughed. “Fine enough. You brought him to the right place for that. But even passing him off as someone else’s son, it’s too dangerous.”
“You’ve said that twice. Why?”
“Cadwallon.”
Myrddin shrugged. “He’s no different than all the rest.”
Marcus gripped the Enchanter’s arm again. “Especially Cadwallon. This is bloody serious.”
“No need to worry.” Myrddin lifted his face to the sky. “Things will be as they must.”
“Nothing is certain,” Marcus reminded him, “even if you’ve seen it in the fire.”
“Ah, that may be so. Or perhaps not.” The Enchanter looked assured in the way he always did when discussing Arthur’s future. He gazed into the sky again, turning his face a little one way then the other, as if to challenge the strength and capriciousness of the coming storm.
Marcus dragged his fingers through his wind-blown hair. “Riddles. Always riddles,” he muttered. But perhaps Myrddin made sense, that no one would notice Arthur as long as he and Uther were not seen together.
“He’s grown well, hasn’t he?” Myrddin said. “Taller than me now. And he’s excellent with weapons, very strong. Best of all, smart. He’ll be joining one of the war bands for training. He’s old enough.”
“Whose?”
“Lord Amlawdd’s, his mother’s people.”
“They don’t know who he is?”
“No. But it’s time he learns battle. Real battle.”
“I suppose,” Marcus said. “He’s what? Four-and-ten? Not a boy anymore. Does he know who he is?”
Myrddin shook his head. “Not yet. The time will come before much longer, I think.”
“What of Uther?”
“Years ago he made me swear to tell him nothing. So he wouldn’t give an accidental slip of the tongue.”
Marcus watched Arthur and the other young man chat with someone hidden beyond the angle of the smithy’s lean-to. Memories of Macsen’s sword, the sacred weapon of the high kings, crossed his mind. He had seen it once, years earlier, in the place it had been hidden for decades, deep in the forests of the northern kingdom of Rheged. Myrddin had called it Excalibur and decided it should remain hidden there until Arthur was ready to claim both his identity and the high kingship.
“The other one is Cei, his foster-brother?” Marcus asked.
“Aye,” Myrddin answered. “As close as real brothers.”
Marcus grunted. For several years Arthur and Cei had fostered in Rheged with a loyal clan-lord called Ector. Rheged had been stable after a long period of unrest, but problems began to emerge again and Myrddin had moved the boys to Dyfed and a new fosterage with Lord Cynyr. Though not high-ranking, Cynyr proved stable, strong, and loyal to Uther. He was also able to keep a secret. Marcus had learned of this move when he discovered that Cei was not actually Ector’s son, but Cynyr’s.
Marcus sensed unease beneath Myrddin’s aloofness. He could smell it. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he said. “You’ve seen Uther. You want them close…just in case?” He tilted his head to try to view the yard without being seen. “Who’s he talking to?”
“Probably a girl.”
“Eh, he’s not going to be a womanizer like his father a long time ago, is he? He’s got the looks.”
“Always cynical, aren’t you?”
“How could I be otherwise?”
Myrddin gathered the cloak’s hood tighter around his face and edged out a few steps. “Ah, it’s Uther. I told them to try to meet him.”
“You did what?” Marcus pulled him back.
“Why worry so much? It’s only so the lad learns a little.”
“You don’t understand. If Uther’s out here now, so might Cadwallon. And Uther’s in a foul temper that could explode like hot pitch and bring attention from the whole court. If you and I and Uther and that boy are all seen in the same place, Cadwallon could guess. The boy looks enough like his father.”
“Cadwallon won’t know him. Why—”
“He wants him assassinated,” Marcus hissed. “Get the boy out of here. Use some of that magic people say you have. Now, go.”
Myrddin stalled. Cadwallon had come out of the hall that housed his chambers. Maelgwn ran to him and scampered around his father like the swirling dust.
Marcus swore again. “I’ll distract Uther. You take Arth—Aradr and Cei out of here.” He slipped away and entered the rear of the smithy. Unnoticed, he passed through. The shoeing was done now, he saw. Thank the gods for that. Three soldiers drank ale and joked together in the front entrance. He pushed past them and out into the yard.
Lightning flashed to the north, a long rumble of thunder followed. Rain shot from the sky in large scattered drops that quickly increased. People in the yard raced for shelter in the great hall and other buildings.
Halting in the yard, Marcus found Uther had already gone and no sign remained of the two young men or Myrddin. Cadwallon played a mock swordfight with his son as they ran towards a building next to the smithy. Well, fine enough, Marcus concluded. He could collect his horse and leave.
The soldiers still stood in the entrance when he returned but they were quiet now, the jar of ale they had shared sat on a trestle. They watched him, let him pass without question. Wary, Marcus nodded.
No reaction.
Without looking up the smith gathered his tools and placed them in a pile on a workbench, not in their proper places. He walked out the back.
Marcus stood still, his jaw clenched. Rain pummeled the roof thatch. The hair on his neck tingled—his warrior’s sense. Ambush? Rustling stirred from the row of stalls off to the side and Uther walked out of the shadows. He lifted a hand and signaled the three men to wait outside.
From the cold, tired squint of the high king’s eyes Marcus knew this was the time to make a show of respect. He bowed.
“I’m going to warn you,” Uther said in a quiet, brutal voice. “Only once.”
Marcus straightened.
The king stalked around the smith’s shop. He picked up a horseshoe plier and set it down again with a hard clank, his hand still on it. “Secrets have a way of making men dead,” he said.
Marcus’s lips twisted. So Uther had heard—and misconstrued—the end of the argument with Cadwallon. And he had no interest in any sort of denial.
“Well?” Uther banged the pliers’ head on the bench. “By your silence I gather you have something to be guilty of?”
“No. I do not.” Marcus folded his arms and wondered what use it would be to say anything more.
Uther’s face darkened. “If you dare—”
“This is not the place to speak of secrets, my lord,” Marcus cut in before the king’s voice rose further. He lowered his own. “Not if you want to keep them secret.”
“You mean to tell me to hold my tongue?”
“I mean to simply say nothing has been given up. Nor implied that secrets are even kept. Leave it be.”
Marcus hoped that would calm Uther, but he saw no change and realized the three men waiting outside belonged to the king’s elite guards. His stomach knotted. Unlike Cadwallon who menaced but rarely carried out his threats, Uther might order—justified or not—another exile, imprisonment, confiscation of lands, or even force him to fight in the war bands at the flip of a finger. Worse, Marcus knew from hints in the past that execution was another option, one that provided absolute certainty that no secret was ever revealed. In truth, as his wife had once put it, he was a prisoner, just without walls of stone. She was right.
Uther gritted his teeth. “Huh. Leave it be. You want to tell me to leave it be. I find you here in his private chambers with no ruse, no disguise, for anyone to see who you are. And then I hear you speak—”
“Stop,” Marcus cut him off again. “The war band meant for you is being sent into the Decangli instead. To take their lands. My only purpose here was to force him to send them on to where they were supposed to go.”
“And you wish me to believe that? On the morrow I leave again for Powys. I have no time for this.”
Was the king’s mind so clouded? Marcus wiped a hand down over his moustache and glared. “He’s going to weaken Powys unless he can be set straight.”
“And you haven’t done it yet, have you?”
“You’ll believe what you want, won’t you? Truth or no?” Marcus spit a curse. More than six-and-twenty years he’d been fighting this nonsense. “Remember the road of lies and secrets runs in both directions,” he said.
The guards moved in two paces. Marcus bit down on his tongue. He should have held his temper. Now his bluntness had earned him more trouble.
“Your sword, Lord Marcus.” Uther held out both hands. His eyes, though they seemed to sag in his face, peered in a steady, sharp and very angry line. “Now.”
With slow caution Marcus reached for the hilt above his right shoulder. Well beyond the king, out in the yard, he caught a glimpse of Myrddin with Arthur and Cei. Paused on their way towards the gates, they watched. Gods, Marcus thought, what would Uther say if he knew?
He drew the two-handed weapon. With care he placed it flat across the king’s hands. Uther was asking for homage, a sincere sign of loyalty and submission. Marcus went down on his right knee and deeply bowed his head.
“Forgive me, my lord. I have been most rude.”
Not a word came from the king, not a sigh, not a grunt of contempt. Lightning flashed again, thunder cracked in pursuit.
Marcus stared at the filthy straw on the ground. He heard Uther’s footsteps crunch, then the soft chink of metal on metal.
“Get up,” the king said.
On his feet, Marcus saw the sword now lay on the anvil, the blade suspended off the square arm. Uther picked up a large-headed hammer and handed it to one of the guards.
“Break it,” he ordered and the tool swung up.
Marcus drew breath.
The hammer rang fiercely on the blade. The steel cracked across the middle. A second strike knocked off the front half.
Laughter snorted from the rear of the smithy. Cadwallon, a smirk on his thin lips, stood there. “Ah, to humiliate a nobleman. And a swordmaster at that.”
“Leave,” Uther growled. “See that I don’t have need to do the same to you.”
The king of Gwynedd shrugged and retreated.
“Marcus ap Iorwerth.” The high king grabbed the hilt and cast it at Marcus’s feet. “You will go home and you will stay there until I send for you.”
CHAPTER 3
Dinas Beris, Gwynedd
Summer, AD 486
There, in the sky to the west—the raven again. Fascinated, Claerwen watched the great black bird sail without effort, wings spread wide on the wind. She had seen it from the fort’s ramparts not long after dawn every morning. The first time was the day after Marcus had left. How many days now? She counted, four? Five?
But this time it had appeared in early evening, not morning.
The lone bird threaded in and out of the clouds in a wide, slow downward spiral that took it towards the tallest peak within the lands of Dinas Beris. At first she thought the raven had found carrion, but the daily recurrence of its flight in the same pattern gave her the impression it might have moved in to nest among the crags.
The raven looped closer. Like appearing late in the day, it had never done that before. Its wings and tail waggled for balance and direction as it glided past, and Claerwen saw its head turn just a bit to give her an inquisitive black-eyed gaze. Then it swung back around to its usual territory.
“This I must see,” she murmured, hurried to the steps and descended from the ramparts’ walkway into the yard.
“I want to walk a little while,” she told one of the guards at the gates. “Will you tell my father, please? So he knows where I am?”
The man nodded. “Escort?”
“No need, I won’t be long. Or far.” Like a reflex, she observed the rule imposed since time out of mind for the simple reason of safety and told him which track she planned to take. Marcus had always been strict about enforcing it. In his absence her father did the same.
Claerwen walked the well worn path down from the timber enclosure, past the small grove that hid a single standing stone and on up the west-facing slope of olive green and rust-colored turf. If only she could move faster than this slow, steady pace. Was it nine years since the accident? No, ten already, she corrected herself. How quickly time had passed since the end of the long exile and the accident that had followed. She recalled nothing of the fast moving flood in which she’d been caught and struck in the chest, probably with a heavy tree branch. She only remembered the long, painful aftermath when she learned her heart had been permanently damaged. In time she had recovered enough to live a normal life but exertion still tired her quickly. Ten years. Seven since the last time she had traveled with Marcus and that had almost been too exhausting for her. She shook her head. She missed working with him in spite of the peril of his…trade.
The mountain northeast of the fort stood like a thick, squat guard that stared across the pass at its higher sister peaks, Yr Wyddfa and Crib Goch, among others. At that height the turf gave way to stark crags and scree where few trees had the courage to grow. This day no mist filled the narrow vales, passes and bowl-like cwms that surrounded it, though heavier clouds bunched above. Short of the summit Claerwen paused, closed her eyes and breathed in the summer fragrance of heather that wafted on a warm breeze from lower down. By the sun and stars, she loved this place.
Minutes later she gathered her skirts and completed the climb. Across the wide summit she passed into a circle of graves and halted in the center. Perched in a stunted, sparsely leaved rowan tree, the raven waited with the same inquisitive regard. She took a step closer. No fear, only caution. Another step and still no indication the creature would fly.
“You wish to show me something, don’t you?” she said.
The raven blinked and cocked its head as if to point out the carnedd below the rowan. She rested her gaze on the carefully mounded pile of stones, the grave of Sinnoch, the young son Marcus had sired with another woman before he had married. Claerwen felt the sting of sorrow. Neither she nor Marcus had known of the boy’s existence until shortly before he had been lost to murder. Five-and-ten years had passed since. Marcus still grieved, not even able to say his son’s name.
Like Sinnoch, so many had gone. Claerwen turned in a circle. The next grave belonged to Iorwerth, Marcus’s father, dead just shy of twenty years now. His carnedd stood next to an earlier grave with the ashes of his wife, gone almost four decades. Several more dotted the summit: grandparents, a beloved and faithful seneschal called Padrig, others she had never met or knew little about. Another carnedd held Owein, a cousin to Marcus and killed in an accident. They had been closer than brothers. The one that was missing—for good reason—would have belonged to Taran, the real brother who had betrayed Marcus and whose ashes were refused burial anywhere within Dinas Beris’s lands. Claerwen shuddered at the memory. The circumstances of Taran’s death, two years before Sinnoch’s, had caused great pain, but out of bitterness rather than sorrow, Marcus forbade anyone to speak his brother’s name aloud.
Her gaze returned to Sinnoch’s grave then lifted to the raven, still watching. “You drew me here. What do you wish for me to know?”
The raven settled its feathers like a blanket over its feet. Its head bowed. Resting? Perhaps, Claerwen wondered, but no, must be something more. A sense of sadness drew her to take one more step. She knelt and bowed her head in return.
Eyes closed, Claerwen let her mind wander. She thought of when they had chosen to plant the rowan tree over the grave. They had never known when Sinnoch was born, but because he looked so much like Marcus, they had decided on a rowan to honor him. Marcus’s birth had been in the winter month of Luis by the old calendar, the rowan its symbol.
Time passed and the evening deepened. Humming, Claerwen lost all sense of the hour, letting a soft, sad melody carry her thoughts away. Within her closed eyelids she grew aware of the mist-like curtain that played against them, the mists of fire in the head that sometimes parted and revealed glimpses of the future, the past, other lifetimes, the unknown.
Medraut. Cwm y Llan.
Like the softest of fleeting whispers, Claerwen heard the words float in her mind. Names? Places?
Cwm y Llan.
Claerwen tensed. She had heard that before, or rather sensed it, in the year after the accident. Cwm y Llan. Valley of the Church. But there was no church. Not in or near Dinas Beris. A Christian women’s religious house had once existed to the south along the pass road that crossed the mountains and marked the border of Dinas Beris’s lands, but the house had been abandoned a long time. No, she remembered, she’d had the impression Cwm y Llan lay somewhere near Yr Wyddfa. And that a battle would take place. But who was Medraut?
Her mind drifted again. By the gods, her eyelids were heavy, almost too heavy to open. Why had she come here?
The soft wift, wift, wift of wings slipped past her and she opened her eyes. Dazed, blinking, she watched the raven rise into the clouds.
“Come again tomorrow?” she whispered. It disappeared.
Wind rushed from behind her and she smelled the scent of horse in the air. Groggy, she shook her head to clear it and realized she was now sitting instead of kneeling.
A hand pressed her arm. Startled, she twisted to find Marcus squatting beside her, his black hair whipping around his face. The skin across his nose and wide cheekbones was mildly sunburned; the redness emphasized the deep lines around his eyes. She broke into a smile and slid into his arms, breathed in the warm smell of leather and wool and earth from his clothes and skin. By the light, she had missed him. And from the way his hands soothed her, he had missed her just as much.
When he eased back she watched his black eyes trace from the rowan to Sinnoch’s grave and again to her. His head cocked to one side. “Why are you up here all alone and,” he returned his gaze to the grave, an eyebrow raised, “talking to a bird? Or to—?” He stopped and his face came back around, more serious. “Or was it the fire?”
What could she tell him? Claerwen smoothed his hair. Of course he would believe her because he believed in the fire, but she had nothing to tell.
“You’re cold,” he said and rose. He moved to the grey horse and pulled his cloak from over his gear.
“I didn’t hear the patrol’s horn,” she said. “They haven’t seen you? Or did I miss it?”
He sat next to her and wrapped the cloak around both of them. “You didn’t miss it. No one else knows I’m here yet.”
His eyes wandered to Sinnoch’s carnedd again. Grief, as always, and the silence. Claerwen leaned her head on his shoulder and let several minutes pass.
“I saw Uther’s son,” he confided.
Chills raced up Claerwen’s spine and she sat straighter. “In truth?”
“Unmistakable. He was with Myrddin. And Cei, his foster brother.” Without moving his gaze from the grave, he told her of his confrontation with Cadwallon, Uther’s untimely interruption and the brief meeting with the Enchanter.
“Cadwallon’s a bloody horse turd,” he said.
Claerwen choked on the urge to laugh.
“And so is his son.” Marcus gave a bitter smile. “But Uther’s boy—such a difference. He looks as if he will become everything Myrddin hoped he would be, everything we all hope for. But Claeri, Uther is sick. I don’t know how much time he has left. If Arthur’s not ready…”
“Meanwhile the vultures gather,” she said.
“Aye…vultures, crows, ravens…” He turned his face to her. “Why are you here among the graves? Did you know I was coming home this way?”
She slowly rocked her head side to side. “I only wanted to see where that raven was going. I’ve seen him several times, always up here. Just curiosity.”
“But you saw something. Fire in the head?”
She shrugged. In recent years the fire had been quiet, free of the dramatic visions with which it had plagued her in the past. She saw and heard wisps of faces and words and odd things all the time and had come to think that most of them belonged to memories glimpsed from earlier lifetimes. Who was to say if this was not more of the same? If the gods wished to show her a matter of importance, she would know.
“For once,” Marcus said, “I’d like to see what’s truly out there instead of reading incomplete dispatches and listening to hearsay. I need to know how bad it is, if Uther’s able to hold off the Saxons much longer. But…”
Beneath the cloak, the muscles in his arm she leaned against stiffened.
“I shouldn’t go,” he went on. “Cadwallon will have spies following me. If Myrddin decides to keep Arthur near his father, I could lead them straight to him. Exactly what Cadwallon wants.”
“And anything you do,” Claerwen added, “anything that goes wrong, Cadwallon will blame you.”
“Damn Uther,” Marcus muttered. He threw off the cloak, rose and began to pace.
“Uther?” Claerwen echoed. Why Uther when he’d been talking about Cadwallon? On her feet she shook out the cloak, ready to fling it across the gear on the grey’s rump, but as she neared the horse she stalled. The leather pack that hung behind the saddle bulged with more contents than it could hold, its cover twisted to try to contain them. She frowned. Marcus was never careless with his gear. She recognized the leather straps of his baldric and the pommel of a sword hilt.
A sword in a saddle pack? She stared at it. The weapon had to have been broken to fit. Claerwen pivoted. Marcus gazed off into the distance towards where Yr Wyddfa loomed in the clouds, his back to her. He didn’t look as if he’d been in a fight—his clothes and hair were covered with road dust and mud spatters. She saw no rips, no scuffs or scratches, no blood, nothing out of the ordinary.
“What hap—?” she started then realized why he had cursed Uther. “By the light… The high king broke your sword? Why?”