Legacy: Arthurian Saga (82 page)

He hesitated, uncertain how to greet
me. I said quickly: "You'll be the innkeeper? I'm Emrys the singer,
who was to bring your wife's niece along with us, with the baby.
You're expecting us, I believe?"

He cleared his throat. "Indeed,
indeed. You're most welcome. My wife's been looking for you this
week past." He saw the boy staring, and added sharply: "What are
you waiting for? Take the horses round the back."

The boy darted to obey. Brand, ducking
his head at me and indicating the door of the inn with a gesture
that was half invitation, half salute, said: "Come in, come in.
Supper's cooking." Then, doubtfully, "It's mighty rough company we
get here, but maybe --"

"I'm used to rough company," I said
tranquilly, and preceded him through the door.

This was not a time of year for much
coming and going on the roads, so the place was not crowded. There
were some half-dozen men, dimly seen in a room lit only by one
tallow candle and the light from the peat fire. The talk hushed as
we went in, and I saw the looks at the harp I carried, and the
whisper that went round. Nobody spared a glance for the girl
carrying the baby. Brand said, a shade too quickly; "On through
there. That far door, behind the fire." Then the door shut behind
us, and there in the back room stood Moravik, fists on her hips,
waiting to greet us.

Like everyone else whom one has not
seen since childhood, she had shrunk. When I had last seen her I
had been a boy of twelve, and tall for my age. Even then she had
seemed much bigger than I was, a creature of bulk and commanding
voice, surrounded by the aura of authority and infallible decisions
left over from the nursery. Now she came no higher than my
collarbone, but she still had the bulk and the voice, and -- I was
to find -- the authority. Though I had turned out to be the favored
son of the High King of all Britain, I was still, obviously, the
wayward small boy from her first nursery.

Her first words were characteristic.
"And a fine time of night to come, with the gates just shutting!
You could have been out in that forest all night, and a precious
lot there'd have been left of you by morning, what with the wolves,
and worse, that lives out there. And damp, too, I shouldn't wonder
-- sweet saints and stars preserve us, look at your cloak! Get it
off this minute, and come to the fire. There's a good supper
cooking, special for you. I remember all the things you like, and I
never thought to see you sitting at my table again, young Merlin,
not after that night when the place burned down round you, and
there was nothing to be found of you in the morning but a few
burned bones in your room." Then suddenly she came forward with a
rush and had hold of me. There were tears on her face. "Eh, Merlin,
little Merlin, but it's good to see you again."

"And you, Moravik." I embraced her. "I
swear you must have got younger every year since you left
Maridunum. And now you're putting me in your debt again, you and
your good man here. I'll not forget it, and neither will the King.
Now, this is Ralf, my companion, and this" -- drawing the girl
forward -- "is Branwen, with the child."

"Eh, the baby! The good Goddess save
us all! What with seeing you, Merlin, I'd forgotten all about him!
Come near the fire, girl, don't stand there in the draught. Come to
the fire, and let me see him...Eh, the lamb, the bonny
lamb..."

Brand touched my arm, grinning. "And
now, what with seeing him, she'll forget everything else, my lord.
It's lucky she got the supper ready for you before she got a sight
of the baby. Sit you down here. I'll serve you myself."

Moravik had made a rich mutton stew,
satisfying and very hot. The mutton of the Breton salt flats is as
good even as anything we get in Wales. There were dumplings with
the stew, and good new bread hot from the oven. Brand brought a jug
of red wine, very much better than anything we can make at home. He
waited on us while Moravik busied herself with Branwen and the
baby, whose whimpering had broken now into lusty crying, only to be
stilled by Branwen's breast. The fire blazed and crackled, the room
was warm and smelled of good food and wine, the firelight traced
the shape of the girl's cheek, and the baby's head. I became
conscious of someone watching me, and turned my head to see Ralf's
eyes on my face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that
moment some clamor from the outer room made Brand set the winejug
down on the table, excuse himself quickly to me, and hurry out. He
left the door slightly ajar. Beyond it I could hear voices raised
in what sounded like persuasion or argument. Brand answered,
quietly, but the clamor persisted.

He came back into the room, looking
worried, and shut the door behind him. "My lord, there's those
outside who saw you come in, and saw you'd a harp with you. Now,
well, it's only natural, my lord, they want a song. I tried to
argue them out of it, said you were tired, and had come a long way,
but they insisted. Said they'd pay for your supper, between them,
if the song was a good one."

"Well," I said, "why not let
them?"

His mouth dropped open. "But -- sing
to them? You?"

"Don't you hear anything in Brittany?"
I asked him. "I really am a singer. And it wouldn't be the first
time I've earned my fee."

From her place near Branwen beside the
fire, Moravik looked up quickly. "Here's a new start! Potions and
such I knew about, learned from that old hermit above the mill, and
even magic -- " crossing herself. "But music? Who taught
you?"

"Queen Olwen taught me the notes," I
said, adding, to Brand, "That was my grandfather's wife, a Welsh
girl who sang like a laverock. Then later when I was here in
Brittany with Ambrosius I learned from a master. You may have heard
him, perhaps? An old blind singer, who had traveled and made music
in every country in the world."

Brand nodded as if he knew the man I
spoke of, but Moravik looked doubtfully at me, tut-tutting, and
shaking her head. I suppose no one who has reared a boy from
babyhood, and not seen him since his twelfth year, ever thinks he
can be a master at anything. I grinned at them. "Why, I played in
front of King Hoel, back there in Kerrec. Not that he's anything of
a judge, but Ralf has heard me, too. Ask him, if you think I can't
earn my supper."

Brand said doubtfully; "But you'll not
want to be singing to the likes of them, my lord?"

"Why not? A traveling minstrel sings
where he's hired to sing. And that's what I am, while I'm in Less
Britain." I got to my feet. "Ralf, bring me the harp. Finish the
wine yourself, and then get to bed. Don't wait for me."

I went out into the tavern's public
room. This had filled up now; there were about twenty men there,
crowded in the smoky warmth. When I went in there were shouts of
"The singer, the singer!" and "A tale, a tale!"

"Make room for me then, good people,"
I said. A stool was vacated for me near the fire, and someone
poured me a cup of wine. I sat down and began to tune the harp.
They fell still, watching me.

They were simple folk, and such folk
like tales of marvels. When I asked them what they would have, they
asked for this tale and that of gods and battles and enchantments,
so in the end -- my mind, I think, on the child sleeping in the
next room -- I gave them the story of Macsen's Dream. This is as
much a tale of magic as any of the rest, though its hero is the
Roman commander Magnus Maximus, who was real enough. The Celts call
him Macsen Wledig, and the legend of Macsen's Dream was born in the
singing valleys of Dyfed and Powys, where every man claims Prince
Macsen as his own, and the stories have gone from mouth to mouth
until, if Maximus himself appeared to tell them the truth, no one
would believe him. It's a long story, the Dream, and every singer
has his own version of it. This is the one I sang that night:
Macsen, Emperor of Rome, went hunting, and being tired in the heat
of the day lay down to sleep on the banks of the great river that
flows towards Rome, and he dreamed a dream. He dreamed that he
journeyed along the river towards its source, and came to the
highest mountain in the world; and from there followed another fair
flowing river through the rich fields and broad woodlands till he
reached the mouth of the river, and there at its mouth was a city
of turrets and castles crowded round a fair harbor. And in that
harbor lay a ship of gold and silver with no man on board, but with
all sails set and shivering to the wind out of the east. He crossed
a gangplank made of the white bone of a whale, and the ship
sailed.

And soon, after a sunset and a sunset,
he came to the fairest island of all the world, and leaving the
ship, he traversed the island from sea to sea. And there on the
western shore he saw an island at hand across a narrow strait. And
on the near shore where he stood was a fair castle, with an open
gate. Then Macsen entered the castle and found himself in a great
hall with golden pillars, and walls dazzling with gold and silver
and precious stones. In that hall two youths sat playing chess on a
silver board, and near them an old man in an ivory chair carved
chessmen for them out of crystal, But Macsen had no eyes for all
this splendor. More beautiful than silver and ivory and precious
stones was a maiden, who sat still as a queen in her golden chair.
The moment the Emperor saw her he loved her, and, raising her, he
embraced her and begged her to be his wife. But in the very moment
of the embrace he woke, and found himself in the valley outside
Rome, with his companions watching him.

Then Macsen leaped to his feet and
told his dream; and messengers were sent the length and breadth of
the world, to find the land he had traversed, and the castle with
the beautiful maiden. And after many months, and a score of false
journeys, one man found them, and came home to tell his master. The
island, most beautiful in all the world, was Britain, and the
castle by the western sea was Caer Seint, by Segontium, and the
island across the shining strait was Mona, isle of druids. So
Macsen journeyed to Britain, and found everything just as he had
dreamed it, and requested the hand of the maiden from her father
and her brothers, and made her his Empress. Her name was Elen, and
she bore Macsen two sons and a daughter, and in her honor he built
three castles, in Segontium, Caerleon and Maridunum, which was
called Caer Myrddin in honor of the god of high places.

Then, because Macsen stayed in Britain
and forgot Rome, they made a new emperor in Rome, who set his
standard on the walls and defied Macsen. So Macsen raised an army
of the Britons, and, with Elen and her brothers at his side, set
out for Rome; and he conquered Rome. Thereafter he stayed in Rome,
and Britain saw him no more, but Elen's two brothers took the
British forces back to their homes, and to this day the seed of
Macsen Wledig reigns in Britain.

When I had done, and the last note had
hummed away to nothing in the smoky stillness, there was a roar of
applause, cups thumping on the tables, and rough voices calling for
more music, and more wine. Another cupful was pressed on me, and
while I drank and rested before singing again, the men went back to
talking among themselves, but softly, lest they disturb the
singer's thoughts.

It was as well they could not guess at
them; I was wondering what they would do if they knew that the last
and latest scion of Maximus lay sleeping on the other side of the
wall. For this part of the legend, at least, was true, that my
father's family was descended straight from Maximus' marriage with
the Welsh princess Elen. The rest of the legend, like all such
tales, was a kind of dreaming distortion of the truth, as if an
artist, reassembling a broken mosaic from a few worn and random
fragments, rebuilt the picture in his own shimmering new colors,
with here and there the pieces of the old, true picture showing
plain.

The facts were these. Maximus, a
Spaniard by birth, had commanded the armies in Britain under his
general Theodosius at a time when Saxons and Picts were raiding the
coasts constantly, and the Roman province of Britain looked like
crumbling to its fall. Between them the commanders repaired the
Wall of Hadrian, and held it, and Maximus himself rebuilt and
garrisoned the great fortress at Segontium in Wales, and made it
his headquarters. This is the place that is called Caer Seint by
the British; it is the "fair castle" of the Dream, and here it must
have been that Maximus met his Welsh Elen, and married
her.

Then in the year that Ector had called
the Flood Year it was Maximus (though his enemies denied him the
credit) who after months of bitter fighting drove the Saxons back
and constructed the provinces of Strathclyde and Manau Guotodin,
buffer states, in whose shelter the people of Britain -- his people
-- might live in peace. Already "Prince Macsen" to the folk of
Wales, he was declared Emperor by his troops, and so might have
remained, but for the events everyone knows of which took him
abroad to avenge his old general's murder, and thereafter to march
on Rome itself.

He never came back; here again the
Dream is true; but not because he conquered Rome and stayed to rule
it. He was defeated there, and later executed, and though some of
the British forces who had gone with him came home and pledged
themselves to his widow and his sons, the brief peace was over.
With Maximus dead the Flood came again, and this time there was no
sword to stop it. Small wonder, in the dark years that followed,
that the short stretch of Maximus' victorious peace should appear
to men like a lost age as golden as any the poets sing. Small
wonder that the legend of "Macsen the Protector" had grown and
grown until his power compassed the earth, and in their dark times
men spoke of him as of a godsent savior...