'No more,' agreed Tewdrig, 'except to say me what is the name of the child? What is he to be called?'

Shameful to tell, I had not thought to call the infant anything. Neither Uther nor Ygerna had bestowed a name, and I had been too preoccupied with its safety to give it any consideration. But the babe must have a name…

A word is given when a word is required. And at this time, like so many others, the name came unbidden to my tongue: 'Arthur.'

Instantly, upon uttering the word, I heard again the voice of my vision: the throng in Londinium clamouring, 'Arthur! Arthur! Hail Arthur!'

Tewdrig was watching me closely, his brows knotted in concern. 'Is something amiss?'

'No,' I reassured him. 'The infant – let him be called Arthur.'

Tewdrig tried the name. 'Arthur… very well. An unusual name, though. What does it mean?'

'I believe he will have to make its meaning for himself.'

Then we must make certain he lives long enough to do so,' replied Tewdrig. He retrieved his cup, raised it, 'To Arthur! Health and long life, wisdom and strength! May he win the hero's portion at the feast of his fathers.'

SIXTEEN

We stayed a while at Caer Myrddin, and would have been content to remain there longer but, when the weather broke, Pelleas and I made our way back to Ynys Avallach. The journey was uneventful – indeed, we met no one at all on the road. But a day out from Dyfed a deep melancholy settled on me. A nameless longing, sharp and poignant as grief.

Into my mind came all the losses I had known. And, one by one, I saw forms and faces of those who had touched my life and now were gone to dust in the ground:

Ganieda, fairest daughter, wife and lover; her clear gaze and ringing laughter; shining hair, long and dark; her sly smile when she hid a secret; the sweetness of her mouth when we kissed…

Hafgan, Druid Chief, watching the world from the lofty elevation of his vast wisdom; welcoming the curiosity of a child; instilling dignity in the humblest gesture; standing firm for the Light…

Dafyd, goodness embodied, kindness with a soul; diligent searcher, defender, and warrior for the Truth; ready believer who did not condemn the unbelief of others; sower of the Good Seed hi the soil of men's hearts…

Gwendolau, stout companion; fierce in battle and in friendship; first to raise the cup and last to set it down; drinking deep of life; knowing no pain or hardship for the sake of a sword brother…

Blaise, last of the true bards; keen of perception and understanding; unwavering in devotion, steadfast in virtue; a burning brand touched to the dry tinder of the Old Way…

And others: Elphin… Rhonwyn… Maelwys… Cuall… Aurelius…

This heavyheartedness lasted with me into the spring and summer. I found myself turning more and more to thoughts of my father, wondering what sort of man Taliesin had been, regretting that I had not known him, weeping for the sound of his voice in song. The regret, at first merely sorrowful, festered and grew into black hatred for Morgian who caused his death.

That she lived and breathed the air of this world – when Taliesin, and so many other good people had gone out of it – infuriated me.

It came into my mind to kill her.

I even planned how this deed might be accomplished. And, before spring was over, I had conceived every aspect of her death – indeed, I had murdered her many times over in my heart.

Nor did I fear carrying out my plan. I believe, if left to myself, I would have found her and slain her. However, we are rarely left to ourselves. Jesu, who watches over the affairs of all men, is not content that any should fall from his hand or long remain beyond his touch. If not for that, I am certain I would have joined Morgian in the stinking pit of hell.

What happened was this:

A woman came to Shrine Hill, suffering from an ailment of her bones which caused them to become brittle as sticks, quickly broken and slow to mend. In the least, the slightest blow would cause a bruise that would swell painfully and last for many days. She had suffered long with this affliction, always in the sorest agony, labouring with her arm in a sling, or hobbling on a crutch – the small bones in her hands and feet snapped so easily.

But she prevailed upon some kinsmen to bring her to the Shrine, for she had heard of the healing work the brothers practised there. In truth, she had heard of the wonders Charis had performed with her healing art. So she came with simple faith to be healed.

Charis had marked – with alarm, I should think – my growing bitterness and depression. She had spoken to me about it, but I was beyond listening. So the day she went to minister to the woman she took me with her. It was a day of darkness for me and, not caring where I was or what I did, I accompanied her to the Shrine.

The woman, neither old nor young, was dressed in a well-patched green mantle, ragged at hem and sleeves, but clean as she could make it. She smiled as Charis came into the room the brothers set aside for treatment of the sick. There were others gathered there – other sick, and a few brothers in their grey robes moving among them. The sound of Psalm-singing came down to us like sweet rain from the hilltop Shrine above.

'What is your name?' asked Charis gently, settling on a stool beside the woman's pallet.

'Uisna,' she replied, her smile tight with pain. 'May I see your hands, Uisna?' Charis took the woman's hands in her own. They were delicate, with fine long fingers, but hideous blue-brown bruises discoloured them and made them ugly. The woman winced as Charis gently, gently probed the bruises, and I saw that it hurt her even to have them touched.

Her feet and legs were the same: beauty made grotesque by the grossness of the malady. One leg had been broken in the past and poorly set; it was crooked and misshapen. I had to look away.

'Can you help me?' Uisna asked softly. It was a plea, a prayer. 'It hurts me much.'

To my amazement Charis answered, 'Yes, I can help you.' How could this be? If I had not known her better, I would have thought my mother callous or unthinking for promising the impossible. But she added, 'The God of this place helps all who call upon his name.'

'Then tell me the name, please, that I may call upon him.' Looking directly into the woman's pain-filled eyes, Charis replied, 'His name is Jesus, King of Love and Light, Great of Might, Lord of Heaven. He is the Son of the Good God, the Everliving.'

No one expected what happened next. For no sooner had Charis uttered the name, the woman's head snapped back and a scream of utter torment tore from her throat. Her body became rigid, the cords of her neck and arms standing out against the skin. She fell back on the pallet, writhing.

Charis jumped to her feet and I dashed forward. She extended a hand to keep me away, saying, 'No, do not come nearer. There is an evil spirit in her.'

The body thrashing on the pallet began to laugh – a sickening, hateful sound. 'You cannot help this bitch whore!'

The woman screamed in a rough, raucous voice. 'She is mine! I will kill her if you touch her!'

The brothers hurried to Charis' side and conferred quickly. One of them dashed from the room and returned a few moments later with a wooden cross and a vial of anointing oil. Meanwhile, the poor woman thrashed and flung her limbs around so wildly that I feared she would break them off – screaming continually with that dreadful, demented laughter.

The monk approached with the cross and oil, but Charis went to him saying, 'I will do it, but I will need help. Go and tell the brothers at the Shrine to uphold us in prayer.'

The man raced away again, and Charis nodded to several of the other brothers, who stood near. 'Hold her so that she does no hurt to herself,' she said. The monks knelt beside the pallet and gently but firmly laid hold of the woman's nailing limbs. Charis, holding the cross and vial, knelt down by the pallet.