'The burial rite,' said Arthur, lifting his hand to the warriors gathered on the shore. 'We must not keep the Cymbrogi waiting.'

'After the rites then,' Myrddin told him flatly. 'I have neglected it too long already.'

Four graves were dug on the side of the hill facing west. They were dug deep and lined with white stone which the Cymbrogi gathered from the nearby hills. When the graves were ready and everyone had performed homage in the shrine, the Nine Worthies, led by the Emrys, ascended the hill and entered the tabled rotunda. After a few moments they emerged with the body of Cai, which they proceeded to carry on its bier to the grave site.

But the Cymbrogi saw this and, rushing to them, pressed close, halting the bier. Then, forming a long double line – somewhat like the battle line, the Companions passed the bier one to another, hand to hand, down the hill from the shrine to the grave. The bodies of Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad and Llenlleawg were cared for in this way as well, so that they were borne to the graves by their friends and gently laid to rest on the hillside.

Arthur and Gwenhwyvar stood at the foot of the graves and, as each body was lowered in, the queen laid a small stone cross upon the chest. The cross was of smooth, black stone on which was inscribed the dead man's name and lifeday in Latin. Beside each cross, Arthur placed a fine gold cup – from which to drink one another's health in the palace of the King of Kings in Heaven, he said.

When each body was thus laid down, the Emrys raised the lament which we all joined until the hills and valleys round about rang with the dirge-song, growing and growing to the very last when it was cut off short. This symbolized the growth through life and the sudden sharp death of those we mourned.

After the lament, the Emrys sang the psalm and prayed Jesu, Son of the Living God, to welcome the souls of the brave into his fair company. After this we each took up stones and laid them on the graves, raising the gorsedd over them. All this was done under Arthur's gaze and, when at last the burial cairns were complete, the Pendragon turned to his Wise Emrys and said, 'Emrys and Wledig, I would hear again the prayer which you have so often sung.'

Myrddin assented, raising his hands in the way of the bards of elder days when they declaimed before their kings. But instead of a eulogy, he sang this prayer:

'Great Light, Mover of all that is moving and at rest, be my Journey and my far Destination, be my Want and my Fulfilling, be my Sowing and my Reaping, be my glad Song and my stark Silence. Be my Sword and my strong Shield, be my Lantern and my dark Night, be my everlasting Strength and my piteous Weakness. Be my Greeting and my parting Prayer, be my bright Vision and my Blindness, be my Joy and my sharp Grief, be my sad Death and my sure Resurrection!'

'So be it!' we all cried. So be it!

TEN

That night we built the fires high and lifted our voices in songs and stories of remembrance. Although no wine or mead or even ale was given out in drink, the Cymbrogi gathered in amiable throngs around the fires and filled the star-dazzled night with a richness of laughter. If the spirits of the dead know anything of the world they leave behind, I believe they would have been pleased to see how well they were loved and honoured by their friends. I went to my bed earnestly wishing that the day of my own death would be so revered.

As before, I slept that night under the stars, wrapped in a red calfskin on the ground before the Pendragon's tent. I did not rest well; something kept sleep from me. During the night I heard a stirring and woke to see the Emrys standing at the embers of the nearest fire, scowling into the dying light. I rose and went to him. 'You are troubled, Wise Emrys. What is the matter?'

He regarded me for a long moment, his face in deep shadow. I saw his eyes glinting sharp in the fireglow, as if weighing out the value of his words. At last he said, 'Dare I trust you, Aneirin?'

'Please, Emrys, if I have ever shown myself false in any way, strike me down at once.'

'Well said,' the Emrys replied, turning his eyes back to the glowing embers. 'You have earned the trust I will place in you – though perhaps you will soon wish otherwise.'

'If the burden be lightened for sharing, I will bear it, Lord.'

The Emrys drew a deep breath. 'I like not the look of Arthur's wound. It should be healing, but instead it is getting worse. I fear poison.'

The Picti sometimes smeared poison on their blades before going into battle. That would appeal to Medraut, of course. 'What is to be done, Emrys?'

Just then the flap of the Pendragon's tent opened and Gwenhwyvar stepped forth. She came quickly to stand beside the Emrys. Standing there, wrapped in her bold cloak, eyes bright, dark hair glinting, features soft in the deep fireglow, I thought that I would never see another woman so proud, so beautiful. Or so worried.

'He is fevered,' she said. 'He sleeps, but it is not a healing sleep. Myrddin, I am afraid. You must do something.'

The Emrys frowned. 'I will open the wound and bind it with herbs to draw out the poison.'» 'And then?' 'And then we shah* see.'

Gwenhwyvar returned to the tent, and the Emrys and I wrapped our cloaks around us and walked down to the stream in the valley. By the moon's bright light we gathered certain leaves and stems of plants he knew to have healing properties. Then we made our way along the stream to the shore, where the receding tide had left fresh sea-plants on the strand. Some of these we harvested as well, and then returned to the camp where the Emrys built up the fire once more.

I fetched clean water in a good iron pot and put it on the fire. When the water boiled, the Emrys carefully added some of the leaves we had obtained and in this way brewed a "healing draught. We tended the cauldron through the night and, at dawn's first light, poured the healing liquid into a bowl and carried it to the Pendragon's tent.

I confess I was shaken by the sight that met my eyes. So changed was the High King that I would not have recognized him: skin grey and damp, hair matted on his head, lips cracked and dry, the cords of his neck straining as he shivered and moaned… Even by the uncertain light of the smouldering rushlamps, I would have sworn he was not the man I knew.

Gwenhwyvar sat beside her husband, clasping his hand in hers. She stirred as we entered and I saw that her eyes were red from weeping. But I saw no tears. 'Arthur,' the Emrys said softly, kneeling beside the bedplace. 'Hear me, Arthur, I have brought you a draught.'

At these words the Pendragon opened his eyes. Those eyesf Hard and bright with fever, piercing, pain-filled. I could not endure the sight and had to look away.

The Emrys beat over Arthur and raised him up. He held the bowl to the cracked lips and gave the Pendragon to drink. Glory of glories, the potent elixir's effect was remarkable and immediate. Colour returned to the High King's face, the shivering stopped, and he relaxed as strength returned.

'Myrddin,' he said, seeing him for the first time. 'I had a dream.'

7 do nor wonder,' Myrddin replied. 'You are sick, Arthur. Your wound is poisoned; it must be opened at once and the poison drained.'

'It was a strange and marvellous dream.' Tell it to me, Arthur, while I tend your wound.' So saying, the Emrys brought out his knife, which had been honed with sandstone and sea-water. He loosened the Pendragon's mantle and drew it away from the wound.

Bitter bile rose in my mouth. The gash was swollen and purple, the edges black and suppurating. It seemed a hideous serpent winding around the High King's neck, venomous and deadly. 'Take the bowl, Aneirin,' the Emrys said sternly.