CHAPTER 22
THE MOST CHERISHED GIFT
Owain ground his teeth and offered up an awkward prayer. How could he do this? He must be stupid to think Uther would forgive him for his desertion. He had spit on their friendship the day he’d run after Gwevian. Couldn’t he have trusted God to save her and obey Uther? Had a right decision even existed?
But Owain had chosen her, and God in his grace had given them a few sweet years and a son of high character. And then she had died, leaving a rift in his heart that might never heal.
Uther had just taken his seat again, and Pennar stepped away with a timid smile.
Now was Owain’s chance.
As he lifted his foot to take the first step toward the High King, Owain’s heart quailed. If he didn’t step forward, then Uther would never know his adversary stood in the crowd. Owain could slip into obscurity. Take his sin to his deathbed. Who would know?
Merlin would. And God would. Owain had been hiding for eighteen years, and the time had come to stand in freedom, whether Uther condemned or forgave him. Merlin had stood before Tregeagle and received punishment unjustly, with grace and strength. Shouldn’t I be willing to receive my own rightful judgment?
He strode forward, and it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
Before the inattentive Uther, Owain fell prostrate with his face to the horse-scented grass, saying, “Great Lord Uther. Your humble servant comes for your judgment.”
“And what complaint do you bring?” Uther said casually. “Has someone stolen your cattle?”
The villagers laughed.
“No, my lord. Rather, someone has a complaint against me.”
“A complaint against you? Where is your accuser? Maybe I scared him off.” This time it was Uther who laughed, and his wife tried to stifle her own mirth.
“My accuser is present, my lord, and he will soon make himself known.”
“Then accuse yourself,” Uther teased. “Ha-ha. Never did a man do that — except maybe Colvarth here!”
“My crime is that I forsook my friend and let him face death. And I did nothing to help.”
Uther stopped laughing.
“This is a serious thing before God,” the High King declared as he rose and limped slowly across the shelf of rock. “How do you plead?”
“Guilty, my lord.”
“Do you have anything to say for yourself? Why would you do such an ignoble thing?”
Owain’s legs shook. “Great lord, if I may be so bold as to beg a question … Have you … have you ever had a friend forsake you?”
Uther stopped. And paced again. Faster.
Owain saw through his fingers the king limping back and forth and his gaze darting. His lips curled in one silent word: Owain. He mouthed the word again. Soon the High King scanned the heavens and closed his eyes in a scowl.
Owain stood before Uther. “It is I … Owain … and I beg your forgiveness and mercy.”
Uther turned and pointed at him. “You,” he roared. “Deserter! You dare come before me?”
He jumped down, grabbed Owain by the tunic, and pulled him within inches of his face. The smell of mead was upon Uther’s lips as he snarled and threw Owain backward.
Shocked by Uther’s onslaught, Owain failed to catch his fall, and his breath was jolted away. The next thing he knew, he felt a blade at his throat and Uther’s knee on his chest.
“Traitor! Why did you leave? You had us thrown out of Dinpelder, and then you left,” Uther hissed. “I’ve waited for this day.”
“I left for love.”
“And where was your love for me? For Barthusek? For Abrans? Their bodies and twelve-score more were eaten by crows while you ran away to what? Your love!” He spit out the last word.
“Her father tried to murder her. I had to —”
“You had to what?” Uther raged. “Make him so angry he’d send his warriors to attack our rear guard while the foe bled us at the front? Did you know he did that?”
Owain felt the blade bite into his throat. “She almost died!” His heart beat wildly, as if the ocean itself tried to burst from his chest.
“I almost died! I hobble because of that day. And with every step, I curse your name.”
“What could I have done?” Owain asked, and he felt hot tears escape his eyes and run down to his ears.
“Stood by my side!”
“We both might have died. And Gwevian as well.”
“Die with me, then!”
Igerna knelt beside her husband with a steady hand on Uther’s sword arm. “Mercy, Uther,” she pleaded. “Did you not risk all for me? For my love?”
“That was different.” Uther swore, but the blade backed off, and Owain dared a breath.
“What price for our love?” she asked Uther. “What would you do to save my life?”
Uther leaped off Owain and away from his wife. He threw his sword into the tall grass and yelled on his way back to the Rock of Judgment, “A thousand Prithager! And you wouldn’t stand beside me. Ahh! The death I saw that day.”
Owain sat up and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry … I ask your forgiveness.” His gaze shifted briefly to the crowd, which looked on as if in shock.
Igerna returned to her place on the bench and looked to her husband, pity and hope reflecting in her eyes.
“As a token of my sorrow,” Owain said, “I bring you a gift.”
He called Merlin, who stood and stepped over to Owain. Receiving the sword from his son, he unwrapped it and held it carefully by the blade with the hilt aloft. Reflecting the morning light, its newly polished steel blazed forth before the silent crowd. Its bronze handle glowed warmly, and the red glass inlay on the guard and pommel shimmered before the High King’s startled eyes.
“My lord, I failed to be the blade beside you, so I now offer you this blade. I am but a smith now. A swordsmith. And I give to you my most excellent work.”
Stepping forward, Owain placed the hilt in Uther’s hand, then backed away.
Uther looked vacantly at the blade … and then his shoulders began to shake. He raised the sword up, and shouted, “I should strike your head off for all you deserve.” He threw the sword down on the Rock of Judgment with a clang and turned away.
Sadness rolled through Owain as part of his soul dashed away with the discarded sword. It had been bitter parting the first time. Could he bear it twice? How could he show his sorrow? Was there anything to break through Uther’s pain?
Movement from behind caught Owain’s eye. Colvarth, the old bard, took a step forward, holding his harp and staring with luminous eyes. At Owain? Or someone else? Who was the man looking at?
Merlin.
The bard gazed at Owain’s son, who was sitting on the grass and had unslung his own small harp from its bag. Merlin’s eyes were tightly shut, and he silently fingered the strings as if to relieve the pressure of the situation.
Colvarth. Yes, of course. An idea buried deep within Owain sprang to life. A chance, though slim. Owain raised his voice. “My king! If you cannot forgive and if you cannot receive my sword, then in sorrow and grief I offer you my most cherished as a gift.”
“What can you offer me?” Uther said, not bothering to turn around. “There is nothing more precious than your life. Begone from here, or I will take it from you.”
“My king, please …”
Uther turned in a rage. “I said —”
“I offer you my son!”
The king faltered.
Like a partridge from the brush, Merlin burst upward and gripped Owain’s shoulder tightly. “Tas,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”
“What I do is for your best. You’ll be provided for when I’m gone.”
Worry lines knotted his son’s brow. How had Merlin aged so much in these few short weeks? Would he be grateful for being placed where his needs would always be met? His future had always weighed heavily on Owain. One day his own arm would fail by injury or old age, and he dreaded to see his son a beggar.
But what would happen if Uther agreed? Owain prayed he would allow Merlin to serve Colvarth, as the two were so alike in spirit. Otherwise, his son would be forced to do menial chores at Uther’s fortress in Kembry. Owain consoled himself that at least the work wouldn’t be harder than smithing. If only they’d spoken about it. But he’d not fully foreseen this, and now it was too late.
“Your son?” Uther asked as he surveyed Merlin.
“Yes.”
“How is it he wears a torc of such majesty? And yet … and yet …”
The High King stepped closer and peered into Merlin’s disfigured eyes. “Are you the son of Gwevian myr Atleuthun? Though you have suffered, you bear the face of that house.”
Pride coursed through Owain as Merlin answered the king with shoulders square and head high. “I am of that lineage, my lord. And though not wholly blind, I am told eyes are ever deceptive. I also know God’s strong hand holds more boons than just sight.”
“Well said.” Uther answered. “And what are you called?”
“In the tongue of the Romans, I am named Merlinus, but my mother named me Merlin.”
“Where is your mother?” Uther stepped back and scanned the crowd. “Is she present? It’s been many years since your father and I stood upon the great rock of her house.”
Merlin blinked a few times and then answered. “She is dead, my lord. Fourteen years.”
Uther looked to Owain for confirmation. Blinking back tears, Owain nodded in confirmation. The king closed his eyes, tightened his lips, and nodded.
“I see,” he said. “You have both suffered.”
The king limped back to his bench and sat down. “If you entered my service, young Merlin, what would you do? How could you serve me? You cannot —”
“Fight?” Merlin answered. “No, I cannot. But I am strong and can do tasks that many hands are unwilling to do. I can garden. I can haul wood and work a bellows. I can hoe out dung. I can —”
Colvarth stepped forward, and Owain’s heart swelled with hope. The bard straightened as far as he was able, raised his thin hand, and in his slow, halting manner said, “Nay, son born of the wild-water … you are not fit for such tasks! You shall be a … bard. Wisdom shall grace your speech, and angels … dance upon your harp. Though now you see not, Merlin, yet in the darkness you shall … light the path of Jesu for all the kings of the world. And though humble, yet in God’s strength you shall … uphold your people!”
As if struck, Uther looked at his chief adviser. “What are you saying?”
“A prophecy, my king,” the bard said.
“Can you be sure of this?”
Sticking his bristly white beard out, Colvarth took one of his long fingers and tapped Uther on the chest. “So has the … voice of the Most High spoken. Do not doubt, my king. Though the young man is … beyond the usual age, yet I will teach him.”
At that moment the druidow made their appearance.
Preoccupied with the discussion, Owain hadn’t heard their approach. They marched four abreast onto the green until all one hundred or so stood around the Druid Stone. They turned to face Uther and the assembly.
Owain looked for Mônda among them but did not see her. He had to find her soon to make sure that she was being cared for properly, even if it meant visiting the camp of the druidow. Though it seemed a futile effort, he had to try once more to persuade her to forsake her pagan ways and follow Jesu.
Mórganthu stood serenely at the front of the gathering wearing a green linen robe with a leather belt. Around his neck hung a large silver amulet shaped like a crescent moon lying with the horns pointing upward. Close by stood a half circle of seven druidow, including Anviv, and their robes were similar to Mórganthu’s.
Uther’s eyes opened wide, and he asked Colvarth, “My bard, what of this? Vortigern mentioned they were here with some rock, but so many? Do you know these?”
Colvarth stared at the druidow, his eyes neither moving nor blinking.
“Colvarth,” Uther said, shaking the old man gently. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Speak, man!”
“Ah, my king. I see the sickle … and it is sharpened for a harvest of woe!”
“But do you know them?”
“In your father’s time, before he … claimed the Christ, I helped lead and dwelt among these druidow. Though I am not familiar with all, yet I know … Mórganthu, their leader, for his thirst for power and devotion to the … old gods is unsurpassed.”
“So he is the one you’ve told me about. What am I to make of this?” Uther asked.
“It is a challenge. The people … have them give fealty to you and your heir. Do it now before Mórganthu speaks and … tries to draw their hearts to himself. It is his way.”
Uther hesitated but finally went to his wife and spoke to her. She called for her eldest daughter, Eilyne, who brought the young Arthur.
The High King stood upon the bench above the people and called to them, arms outstretched in welcome. “Citizens and Britons! Hear your High King. I have come to visit you, not only to have your fortifications inspected, which aids in your protection” — the people turned and murmured assent — “but also to receive your fealty.”
Dwarfed by the large frame of Uther, the bard spoke next. “Each of you, come forward and kiss the leather of the High King’s boot … and the boot of his son. And so receive his protection.”
The crowd mumbled and looked to one another. A few of them shrugged their shoulders and stepped forward. Until Mórganthu raised his voice.
“People … my people! Do not give fealty to the High King. He neither honors your gods nor worships them. All who call on his foreign god will be cursed.” Mórganthu struck the Stone with his staff, and from deep inside the blue light gleamed.
Most of the villagers turned and walked toward Mórganthu, their arms stiff and their heads swaying slightly as drums began to beat beyond the Stone.
Owain held his breath as he looked to Uther and saw rage flash in the king’s eyes and play at the corners of his mouth.