SIX

When spring came, the Emrys and I made another journey to Avallon in the western sea. This time we were accompanied by the queen and several of her women. The church and monastery being built there were close to Gwenhwyvar's heart, and she wanted to see the work for herself.

We sailed from the king's harbour one bright morning, with a fresh northwesterly wind filling the sails and sending us smartly over the white-crested waves. The queen and the Emrys spent the entire voyage head-to-head in earnest discussion. I do not know what they talked about, but at the end of it Gwenhwyvar embraced the Emrys and rested her head on his shoulder for a long moment, then kissed him on the cheek.

It appeared to me that something had been settled between them. Or perhaps they had become reconciled to one another in some way. Nothing was ever told me about this, so I cannot say. But I noticed that affairs between the Pendragon's queen and his Wise Counsellor were more warmhearted from that time on.

The rest of the journey passed with neither event nor incident, and we arrived at Avallon as the western sky faded from lapis blue to greenish gold. A party of monks came down to the water to greet us. They brought horses with them and sped us on our way. Still, it was well-nigh dark by the time we reached the Fisher King's abode.

We were expected and ardently hailed. The first boats to outer islands in spring carry with them the reminder that the world has not forgotten the island dwellers, and are greeted all the more zealously for that.

Once again I was awed by King Avallach's towering presence, and even more so by the beauty of his daughter Charis.

To behold Queen Gwenhwyvar and the Lady of the Lake together was to peer too long into the sun's brilliant dazzle, to feel the heart lurch in the breast for yearning, to have the words stolen from the tongue before the lips could speak them.

Chads and Gwenhwyvar embraced one another upon meeting and continued to cling together for some time after, as they spoke of other meetings and partings. Clearly, they were friends of the heart.

That night, harp-song echoed in the Fisher King's hall as the Exalted Emrys played and sang the songs of an elder time. These were songs I had never heard, whose melodies were older than anyone now alive, describing events that had taken place so long ago that men did not now remember them, save in song only. I listened and longed for some small portion of the gift that Myrddin Emrys possessed in such full measure.

Jesu love me, it seemed that time stood still in the Fisher King's hall when the Emrys sang. As in Bran the Blessed's court when Rhiannon's birds made song and eighty years became as a day, the ceaseless flow of time ebbed away to nothing and we all stood together in a single everlasting moment.

And hi that eternal instant, all grief, all care, all pain and falsehood was extinguished, doused like shadows in the sun. Then were we each shown to be fairer and more noble than ever we were, more keen and quick, more alive than life itself.

These moments are rare enough, but they do exist. Happy is the man who knows at least one such time in his life, for he has tasted of Heaven.

I slept with the haunting harp-sound still lingering in my ears, and woke to find myself alone in the palace and the morning far spent. I rose and walked across the yard to the embankment, mounted the steps and walked along the walltop to see what I could see.

A little distance away to the south the white stone walls of the monastery shone in the sun. It came to me that there could be no finer thing than to live within that holy precinct and devote the whole of my life to the pursuit of the Most Holy God and his Saviour Son. I decided to go there and see for myself what kind of life was to be found.

In this I was disappointed, for although the walls stood, little else of the monastery had been completed. Heaps of stone lay scattered in the broad yard alongside stacks of cut timber. The foundations of several buildings had been laid and construction had resumed with the season. Everywhere men were at work, cutting and shaping and digging. The brothers laboured zealously, so it seemed, but there was still much to be done.

I watched for a while, little noticed by anyone there, before turning back to make my way across the soft green grass to the palace, the sea wind flinging my cloak away from my shoulders. Midway between the unfinished monastery and the Fisher King's palace I halted, unable to go on.

Strange to say – stranger still to feel – it suddenly seemed to me that this island became my life, the palace and the monastery the twin poles of my soul. And I was caught between them. I must, I thought, choose one or the other, and the choice must be soon.

I do not know why I thought this, or why it seemed so urgent to me at that moment. God knows.

I stood for a time, my heart heavy with the swing of emotion, first towards one choice and then towards the other. And then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling left me and I was able to continue on as before. But it was not as it was before. I did not know it then, but my life would never again be what it was before. Events were already moving swiftly to overtake us all.

A few days later we journeyed back to Caer Lial and reported to Arthur that the work on the church and monastery were proceeding apace. Gwenhwyvar especially seemed pleased that so much had been accomplished in so short a time. 'This time next year,' she declared, 'the church will be complete and the hospice will be ready.'

The Pendragon was glad to see us returned, for it was nearing the Eastertide when the next council of the Round Table would be held. He asked the Emrys to go ahead to the rotunda and make all ready for the council. I went with him, of course, and we readied the shrine – sweeping it out, washing the floors and steps, gathering firewood aplenty, and storing the food Arthur wanted served.

On the eve of the vernal equinox, the Emrys and I found ourselves once again together before the fire, as we ate our meal under the evening stars. 'Tomorrow the council will begin,' he said, breaking bread with his hands and offering me half the broken loaf. I knew this, of course, but something in his voice made me stop and consider what his meaning could be.

'Is this to be a special council, Emrys?' I asked.

He gazed at the heart of the fire, his eyes hooded and secretive. His answer was not what I hoped it would be. 'Mighty forces are at work in this worlds-realm, boy. Forces from which profound events are sprung. Where great good prevails, there great evil gathers.'

Then, as if to comfort me with a kindlier word, he said, 'Still I do not see the end; I see the beginning only.'

I know he did not mean to frighten me, but the truth is sometimes fearful. My heart sank within me and I felt weak and small. I felt the shadowed army of the Great Enemy drawing near, and I felt the light to be a feeble and pitiable, insignificant thing. That night I dreamed I saw a vast dark chasm yawning before me and a single broken trail leading down into it, as into a ravening beast's foul maw. In my dream I saw my feet treading that hopeless path and myself sinking into the darkness.

Yet the next day dawned fresh and fair. The imagined horrors of the night were once more slain by the power of the light. The Great God's faithfulness was once more manifest to the world. I took comfort in this.

At midday Bedwyr, Bors and Cai arrived leading pack horses bearing provisions and tents. To my dismay, Medraut was with them. Since that first night when I bested him in the matter of the beds, I had succeeded in avoiding him. It had not been difficult, for he had been given quarters outside the palace with the other warriors in the Pendragon's warband.