"My life has been spent like a piece on a gaming board: sometimes powerful, sometimes weak, but always moved by another's hand!" ... "I was passed from father to son, like some favourite spear." This is Myrddin's (Merlin's) verdict on his life, as it draws to a close.

The Circle, the Sword and the Cross is set in the Britain of the 5th and 6th Centuries and is based on the fact that the Age of Arthur was also the Age of Saints. A fictionalised historical novel the bulk of the story is told by Myrddin in the first person.

Recovering, in an island monastery, from the trauma of Arthur's last battle, Myrddin is put in the care of a young novitiate monk (the canonized St. Teilo). To pass the time, he recounts his life story to the young man, from his Druidic training and the dawning of his powers as a seer to his enlistment by Uthr, the first Pendragon, and on to the massacre of Arthur and his Companions in the Battle of Camlan. Intertwined with this is the story of his long friendship with Dyfrig (the canonized St. Dubricious), his spiritual twin, whom he first encounters in Vortigern's hall, and his resulting involvement with the development of a distinctive early Celtic Church, the Cwfl Du, which blends the Church of Rome with elements of the native British religion.

A three part trilogy, this first volume (~ 93,000 words) takes the story up to the death of Uthr and the crowning of Arthur. The second volume (in progress) ends with the Battle of Camlan and the demise of Myrddin. The final volume (to be prepared) is narrated by Teilo as an old man and takes the story from his early monastic career, through the advance of the Saxons and the demise of Dyfrig and ends with Teilo, now a Bishop, on his death bed as the Celtic Church in western Britain is integrated into the Church of Rome.

Author's Note: I have taken the time-scales of Arthurian legend, Church hagiography, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles and what meagre solid history exists. I have slid them against each other, until I have heard a Click! After retiring to Penally, I decided to research the local saint - Teilo. I was staggered to discover that two of his mentors appeared in Arthurian legend - St. Illtud was Arthur's cousin and Dyfrig (St. Dubricious) was the bishop who crowned Arthur. A mutual friend introduced me to Father Gildas of Caldey Monastery, who immediately said "There's a book in that! - Write it!" Our subsequent discussions giving me a real "feel" for the period. He also put me on to a couple of fantastic reference books that really made the people and places come alive: "People in Welsh History and Legend up to 1000 AD by Peter C. Bartrum" and "Wales in the Early Middle Ages by Wendy Davies". These have slowly been added to until I have a quite well-stocked bookshelf. The whole saga encapsulates the life of Dyfrig; told first from the viewpoint of Myrddin and then from the viewpoint of Teilo. So my sources are mostly: (1) History (very thin on the ground for this period). (2) Many of the Arthurian legends, including "The Mabinogion", with some of the book's framework being derived from "The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth". (3) Hagiography (Lives of the Saints etc). Sometimes I live the period and even dream of it!!

Sample Chapters

Prologue

The night wind howled in from the sea and hammered the island. It moaned through the deep caves, stirring the ancient bones, and rattled the monastery shutters.

The two men sat facing one another in the flickering lamplight, heads almost touching.

They were an ill-matched pair. The Abbot, stout, dressed in his dark brown habit, his round face creased with good humour: the druid, skeletally thin, his once-white robe hanging loosely, eyes sunk in their sockets, face creased with weariness.

'I am tired, old friend.', began the druid, 'So tired. Like a fool juggling swords for the entertainment of the crowd, I have overreached myself and fallen in a tangle of blades.'

He sighed wearily and continued, ' My life has been spent like a piece on a gaming board: sometimes powerful, sometimes weak, but always moved by another's hand!'

Abbot Bŷr reached out a hand and shook his visitor's knee roughly.

'How can you say that! You are Myrddin! A whole generation have blessed you for the peace and stability they have enjoyed. How many men can say that! '

Myrddin shook his head sadly. 'Arthur and all his dreams have been destroyed; swept away by petty rivalries and the barbarian horde . In a generation our little triumphs will have been forgotten.' 'Never!' roared Bŷr. 'Your deeds will run through the tapestry of this land like a golden thread, far into the future.'

'No.' sighed Myrddin with a shake of the head. 'The days of me and my kind are gone; we have outlived our time!'

Abbot Bŷr snorted. 'This is just hunger and weariness talking. A few days rest with good food and drink,' he waved his cup, 'and you will be the old Myrddin once more, ready to take on the world! He sat back and gestured expansively. 'Forget your pain! Remember when we were both young and bold and all the world's mead and girls were around every corner!' He threw back his head and laughed. 'I seem to remember a young witch who could twist you round her little finger!'

Myrddin shook his head sadly. 'A witch indeed! In the end, even she betrayed me, perhaps more than any. No!, I need a place to rest ... perhaps to die.'

Bŷr snorted dismissively. 'Rubbish! You are at least a couple of years younger than I am. Rest here for as long as needed. We are not a wealthy community, but we have enough to feed you up!' He leaned forward. 'But before you go to your cell, tell something of what happened when you rode north with Arthur, that final time. There were rumours but...'

The druid leaned back and his eyes took on a faraway look.

'The Pendragon strode, roaring like a blast of the North Wind, into my cell in Bishop Dyfrig's hall at Caerleon, where we were both knelt in prayer to our respective gods.

'Myrddin! Dyfrig! Get off your holy knees and follow me, now! The lords of the West are squabbling again.' He paced up and down, his bulk filling the cell. 'More talking and law making are needed – as usual. Not that it will settle anything!' He threw up his arms in frustration. 'It never does – and it never will!'

He flung a finger out at Dyfrig. 'Dyfrig – you know Afan, Serwyl of Ceredigion's bishop, don't you? I want you to support him as much as you can. I can't be seen to be partial: with Maelgwyn in a monastery, the High Kingship should pass to Rhun but, until he is formally crowned, I have to keep the peace! We need a buffer between Dyfed and Gwynedd and Serwyl is the only man who can provide that. He's a dry reed, but the best we've got. Otherwise, all the Irish pirates in creation will be setting up shop in every cove and creek down the coast!'

He stopped pacing and rubbed the old scar by his left eye, irritably. 'To Traeth Maelgwyn again! Sometimes I wish that whole bloody place would get washed away by the tide! But, if a bit of tradition helps, so be it!' He turned and left as violently as he had arrived, calling ' On your horses. We leave Caerleon before noon! Move!'.

We scrambled to our feet and, as a wave of dizziness overcame me, I leaned on my friend's arm for support.

Dyfrig looked at me, concern in his eyes. 'You are still not really strong enough to travel, are you? Why not rest here. I will make your excuses'

'No! - Arthur would never forgive me!' I rose stiffly and began to gather my belongings.

There was one thing that worried me, though. Right from the beginning I had always been able to feel Arthur's approach well before he arrived. This time – nothing! My senses seemed dead.

After ten days resting at Caerleon, I was still suffering from the lingering effects of the concoctions that Niamh had forced down my unwilling throat. She had thought to weaken my mind so that I would give up the secrets that she supposed that I was hiding from her. She had the idea, against all the evidence, that I was a true magician with arcane skills beyond her imagining. The more that I descended into a drugged incoherence, the more foul draughts she forced upon me! Thank all the Gods that Dyfrig, still searching when all others had given up, had found us and dragged me away! I still dared not ask him what fate he had visited upon her!

So, we gathered our packs once again and, after a hasty meal, rode out in Arthur's wake.

Three days later, battered by wind and weather, we came toTraeth Maelgwyn on the broad sands of the Dyfy estuary.

You should have seen it, Bŷr! For five days the land had been hammered by gales and downpours. The Dyfy was in flood, turning the strand and adjoining plain into a swamp. Nevertheless they had all come at Arthur's calling. The whole expanse between the river and the hills was covered with a sprawling mass of tents, kitchen pits, rough shelters, latrine pits and the garish pavilions of the lords and their champions!

There were Rhun ap Maelgwyn of Gwynedd; Serwyl ab Usai of Ceredigion; old Alun Dyfed representing your Lord Gwrthefyr of Dyfed; and a score of middling lords. All with axes to grind, all trailing their war bands, all strutting about like fighting cocks, daring anybody to tread on their shadows! And ten times that number of brawling sellers of everything from food and drink to their own, or other's, bodies.

And, of course there were every lord's druids and priests; all ready to argue the law and to bless or curse as required. That, of course, included Dyfrig and myself.

Not that I was in any condition to debate the finer points of ownership. Dyfrig had to just about carry me to the gathering. As it was, I wandered around in a daze, not recognising half the faces that greeted me familiarly. Not until the third day did the fogs fade and I began to feel that I was fully alive and could trust myself to take part in the arguments.

That was the day that the chaos reached it's peak. Drink and arrogance had done their work and the factions, having exhausted all their hot air and shoving, took to weapons. Fights broke out and before noon had passed, five men lay dead, with twice that number nursing bloody wounds. Einion ab Elffin, young lord of the vale, tried to exert his authority on the milling masses, but to little avail. It looked as if the gathering would end in all-out war.

Only the Pendragon could have hammered some sort of order out of this chaos. And hammer he did! Striding between the tents, slapping sense into drunken heads, facing down the arrogant bullies regardless of rank; real or imagined. His bodyguard of Dragons lead by Sagramawr gave the final answer where needed, loping along in Arthur's wake with hands on sword hilts, their 'rat tail' braids swinging at their cheeks.

This was the only time that I ever remember Arthur drawing the Dragon Blade in anger, other than in battle; and that was against Alun Dyfed himself! It was touch and go for many moments, but then the bow-legged old warrior stepped back. After that, there was a notable cooling all round.

The next day was spent with every claimant stating his right, as he saw it, to every disputed sand dune between Cemais and Llyn. What it really amounted to was that Dyfed and Gwynedd were challenging Ceredigion's very right to exist, with Morgan of Powys sniffing around, like a hound under a dinner table, ready to snap up any morsel that fell between the boards. Lord Serwyl was like a stag at bay. Flanked by Bishop Afan, his druid Carwyn and an army of clerks, he threw out chapter and verse in response to every challenge, his thin, piping voice rising ever higher and higher.

As the sun sank towards the sea, the disputants finally ran out of fire and separated to drown the embers in more serious drinking.

The following day dawned fair and Arthur had gathered the major lords and their aids into his tent to plan his next moves. Dyfrig and I, of course, were in there as part of Arthur's company.

We all had just settled around the battered old campaign table when there came a thunder of hooves outside, the flap was thrust aside and a compact figure in a travel stained cloak, with a small harp slung across his back, crashed in and threw himself on one knee before Arthur.

As he straightened up and dashed the sweat-matted hair from his eyes, we recognised him as young Talisien, bard to Urien of Rheged and a friend of mine for many years. He had ridden day and night from the North and the news that he brought was dire!

His story was this. Hearing rumours of men on the move beyond the Wall, Urien Rheged had sent his bard northwards to investigate, posing as a wandering minstrel. Talisien had drifted up towards Alt Clut, playing his lays and singing his songs at firesides here and there, keeping his eyes and ears open. He found that the facts were clear to see.

The Lords of the North, including Clydno Eidyn of the Gododdin and Rhydderch Hael of Ystrad Clut, were gathering their forces at Alt Clut intent upon avenging Rhun of Gwynedd's slaying of their kinsman, Elidir the usurper, husband to Rhun's half sister. What was even more ominous, they had been joined by Medrod and his horde of battle-hardened mercenaries, made up of, not only renegade Britons, but Saxons, Picts, Irish, and the sweepings of every ale-house down the East Coast. They wanted nothing but an opportunity for pillage and rape!

Rhydderch was assembling a fleet at Alt Clut and in a matter of weeks, days now, would be ready to embark and to sail down the coast for Gwynedd!

At this news, the whole gathering dissolved into arguing clusters, until Arthur, climbing onto the table, called the leaders together whilst the rest of us dispersed.

Taliesin, after greeting Einion, who was the son of his first master, came across to Dyfrig and myself. After effusive greetings, we retired to our tent, leaving the Lords to their debating.

When we had settled Talisien with a cup of hot mead, we asked him how his lord, Urien Rheged, intended to react, as we had noticed that there had been no offer of support from the northern kingdom.

'No.' Our friend laughed in his high voice. 'He he may be an old comrade of Arthur, but he is much more interested in the fact that every able bodied warrior north of the Wall will be absent on this expedition and this will be an unrivalled opportunity for him to expand his kingdom into southern Ystrad Clut! For him, the longer the conflict in Gwynedd continues and the bloodier it is, the better!'

We fell to serious drinking.

At some point in the evening, Talisien threw his arm around my shoulders and, turning to Dyfrig, asked 'What is wrong with our friend here? He seems to be only half interested in the world – not like him, at all.'

Dyfrig made light of it. 'He has just escaped the clutches of a blood-sucker of a woman and is still recovering!' Talisien laughed and slapped my shoulder. 'So – there is still fire in the old hearth!' I was too weary to enlighten him.

By the end of the day, Arthur had a plan of action in place.

Rhun of Gwynedd, with his war lords, would take boat north directly from the estuary, and landing at the mouth of the Glaslyn, would race northwards, straight for Caer n'Arfon, to rally his people. He would be followed by the war bands of Ceredigion and Dyfed, who grudgingly vowed to put their differences aside for the duration of the conflict.

Meanwhile Arthur would send out the call to his holdings, down to Celliwig across the water and back to Caerleon and then, when his force was assembled and with the remaining lords present together with however many of their people would answer their calls, would march inland and, turning north, would take the invaders on the flank.

That was when the divisions in the kingdom surfaced.

There were many factions that had come to the gathering solely hoping to expand their holdings and held that Rhun's confrontation with the Men of the North and Arthur's problems with Medrod were their own personal business' and not worth shedding blood for. It was a sign of the times that some of the minor lords who elected to follow Arthur were deserted by their men and went to war with only their personal warband of a couple of hundred, or less.

The first of Arthur's men to arrive was Bedwyr from Caerleon, accompanied by seven hundred spearmen and two hundred mounted Dragons in full scale armour; always an impressive sight.

Bedwyr and Arthur embraced and I heard Arthur whisper to his friend, 'I keep expecting to see Cai arrive at any moment.' Bedwyr sighed and punched his lord roughly with his good fist. 'I doubt if even his spirit could leave his bones, scatter the Franks and cross the sea, even though he would have wished to be the first here!'

Arthur grinned, shook his head ruefully and raised his arms. 'Tonight we will drink to his memory! Soon we may be the only ones who remember him!'

Four days later, weary but cheerful, Derfel Cadarn rode into sight, with the men of Celliwig, six hundred strong. Derfel was Arthur's warlord in Cernow, a hard man and a superb field commander. With him was a young man that I had heard of, but not encountered before; Pedrog, another fighting priest in the old tradition, protégé of Bedwyn, Bishop of Celliwig. He and Derfel seemed to have a firm friendship, such as Arthur and Bedwyr and, for that matter, Dyfrig and I, enjoyed.

At the same time, but from the opposite direction, news arrived that, three days before, the enemy fleet had made landfall at the mouth of the Clwyd and the Lords of the North, after gathering themselves, were moving westwards towards Arfon, pillaging as they went. More disturbing was the news that Medrod's mercenary horde had split from the Lords of the North and appeared to have turned south, threatening Penllyn, Cai's old fiefdom and the place where Arthur himself had been raised!

In his old campaign tent Arthur stood, looking down at the map spread out on the table, surrounded by his allies. He reached out and traced lines of movement, sometimes shaking his head and starting again.

Eventually he straightened his aching back and spoke.

'Rhun will have to defend his territory with what he has. Without Medrod's mercenaries facing him, he should have no trouble! The present greatest threat to the kingdom as a whole is Medrod's force, moving south! We will halt him at or near Caer Gai. We leave at dawn and will pass through the hills here, where the Sarn Elen crosses the Dyfy.' He jabbed his finger down and turned to Einion ab Elffiin. 'What do you call this place?' We all clustered round and looked to where he was pointing.

Einion glanced down at the map and shrugged as if it was unimportant. 'Camlan, Lord.'

I heard the name and – God help me – I felt nothing!'

The old Druid collapsed into the Abbot's arms, tears streaming down his face.

Chapter XVII

Illtud

The following Autumn, Dyfrig needed a rest from his ministery at both Mochros and, more ceremonially, at Caerleon and also wished to finalise his discussions with Bŷr about the possibility of setting up a more permanent sanctuary, here on Ynys Beddau. So, we determined to make the journey west before the weather deteriorated.

We decided that we should leave Caerleon southwards and follow the coast to the West. This way, we could call in on young Cadoc at his new monastery and see how he was progressing. The weather being fine, we made good time and, after spending the first night at the settlement at Caerdydd, clustered around the ruined Roman fort, we pushed on and reached Cadoc's budding establishment in the late afternoon.

The first sight that we had of it was not encouraging. Sited at the point where a number of streams joined, the land surrounding the cluster of buildings was poor and marshy, with thickets of straggling alder and willow spreading in all directions. 'He will be draining this land forever!' judged Dyfrig, shaking his head sadly. 'No wonder his uncle Pawl was happy to give it to him for nothing.'

As we rode nearer, a group of mud-stained men carrying spades and mattocks hauled themselves out of a trench which ran towards the stream and came to meet us. Their leader suddenly started waving and running towards us. As he got nearer, through the grime we finally recognised the tousled head and grinning face of Cadoc. Wiping the mud from his hands on his soaking habit, he clasped us each in turn in welcome and then waved his arms, taking in the low houses and the reedy marsh. 'Welcome to Llancarfan, friends.'

Dyfrig raised an eyebrow at Cadoc. ''Llancarfan' – place of stags eh? - how did it come by that name?'

Cadoc tapped the side of his nose with a grubby finger and laughed. 'Wait 'til this evening and you will see for yourselves! Now, come on in; we were just stopping our drainage work for the day. I don't know about you two, but we are starving!'

We trooped through the gateway in the circular enclosure, picked our way across a muddy yard and into the main hall, where we were soon sitting at a long bench spooning down a hot stew of eels which, as our host explained with a rueful laugh, were the most plentiful food in the marsh and 'not too bad cooked with plenty of herbs!'

We were wiping out our bowls with the last of the bread when Cadoc, looking at the reddening beams of the sun streaming in almost horizontally through the shutters, rose and gestured us to follow him outside. In the light of the lowering sun, he led us quietly to the boundary wall overlooking the stream and indicated that we should be silent.

For long moments we stood, leaning on the chest-high wall gazing at the marsh and trees in the

fading light. The breeze had died away to nothing and the bird song from the reeds faded as the marsh creatures settled for the night. Dyfrig and I were just beginning to become restless and were looking at each other with frowns on our faces when Cadoc put a hand on my arm and, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, drew our attention to a clump of trees in the middle distance. Straining my eyes, I seemed to detect one low branch moving as if detached from the rest.

Suddenly Dyfrig and I gasped as the movement resolved itself into the antlers of a magnificent stag which stood, half out of the undergrowth, head raised, scenting the air. Eventually, satisfied that here was no danger, the beast emerged completely from the trees and moved towards the stream.

He was the biggest stag that we had ever seen, like some remnant of a race from the distant past, his mighty antlers spread like a tree in winter. Behind him the bushes shook and he was followed into the open by his harem of three hinds. Stepping slowly and delicately, the family group moved down to the water and began to drink, the great stag lifting his head now and then to scent the air.

As if rooted to the spot, we watched in awe as the herd drank their fill and then, the stag leading the way, moved up the bank towards the darkening woodland. At the verge of the trees, the great stag halted and turned his head toward us. For a brief moment the great, brown eyes met mine and a singing filled my head. A deep voice that I had heard once before under the apple tree filled my brain. 'I know you! Go in peace!' The great head turned away and the woodland edge was empty. The three of us let out our long-held breaths and, following Cadoc, moved back into the hall.

'Well,' grinned our host as we settled back at the table with drinks in our hands, 'now you know why we christened our home 'Llancarfan'. The brothers have named him 'Brenin y Gors' – king of the marsh. We treat him as the spirit of the place and have sworn that, no matter how hungry we are, we will never harm him or his herd. In some way, we feel protected by his presence.'

The following morning, after a night spent swatting mosquitos whose singing filled the sleeping room and to whom Cadoc and his monks seemed impervious, we broke our fast with our friend and discussed our journey.

'If you are following the coast,' said Cadoc, 'you must visit Bangor Tewdws at Hodnant and meet Commander Illtud. He was the first to benefit from uncle Pawl's generosity and to be given land in this area. He is quite a character.'

'Ah, yes!' answered Dyfrig. 'I know a little of him already. We are vaguely related to him in a distant sort of way, through Amlawdd of the Three Caers. His mother is one of Amlawdd's daughters – the one who married an Armorican prince, and my mother was a cousin of Amlawdd's wife. I hear that he runs a sort of school teaching young noblemen military skills and has a growing reputation.'

'Yes.' nodded Cadoc. 'His young warriors often break their journey here on their way from visiting Caerwent or Caerdydd.'

We moved outside to where our mounts waited and, with shouted farewells and vows to meet again ringing in our ears, rode off with the sun at our backs.

Following the coast, we came in the early evening to a cluster of obviously Roman buildings in a wide green valley which, further southwards, was dominated by a small caer overlooking the sea. Looking at the Roman settlement, you could see where the original stonework had been repaired and where new thatch had replaced the fallen tiles.

'This was once a famous seat of learning', explained Dyfrig. 'Bangor Tewdws was founded in the time of Theodosius and famed as far as Rome as a place where great learning was to be had; but it has lain empty for over two generations, since it was sacked by sea raiders shortly after it was abandoned by the Romans. Until now'.

We trotted through the dilapidated gateway and were met by a young man in plain, homespun robes and sandals. He had the look and bearing of a monk, though he wore his hair not in a tonsure, but trimmed short, as if to suit a helmet.

'Let me take your horses,' he said 'You will find Commander Illtud in the exercise yard.' He pointed through an archway through which came faintly the clash of arms and the sounds of men shouting and laughing.

We dismounted and, leaving our mounts to be stabled, passed through the arch and stopped in amazement.

We were in a square yard, maybe a hundred paces across. Ranged across it were perhaps thirty young men, dressed as our greeter, kneeling in rows. Their attention was concentrated on a flurry of movement at one end of the yard.

Four figures were engrossed in what seemed to be a complicated dance. All four were armed with practice long swords like cavalry spatha, but blunt edged and with rounded tips. Three of the figures were dressed in padded jerkins with helmets on their heads. They were an ill-matched trio, one with a stump where his right hand should have been, twirling his weapon expertly in his left, the second youth exceptionally broad in the chest, whilst the third towered over the other two. The central figure turned to make a joke with the other two and I started in surprise. The scarred left cheek and the resultant flaring eyebrow was unmistakeable. It was Arthur! A child no longer, but a well muscled young fighter!

It was, however, the fourth figure that drew our gaze.

Naked to the waist, he wore loose breeches, tied at the waist and ankles. Well-muscled and gleaming with sweat, he was clean-shaven and wore his blonde moustaches long, in the Armorican style. His feet were bare and, on his head, he wore a loose, red woollen cap that hung forward over his forehead, with side flaps that covered his ears. His lithe body gleamed as he wove, apparently effortlessly, like a dancer, around and between his three opponents. His blade flashed out, again and again, stabbing and slashing apparently at will. His adversaries appeared to be totally unable to predict his attacks and gasped as his blade thumped home, time after time. Never had I seen such a dazzling display of footwork and swordsmanship.

All four were laughing heartily between gasps, when the tormentor leaped back and rested on his weapon.

'I will now try to make it a more equal fight', he said, in a broad Armorican accent. Pointing to Arthur, he called, 'you first, cousin.' Saying which, with his left hand, he slid the front of his cap down over his eyes and took up a defensive stance.

'Never forget, you may be blinded by mud and rain. Or blood!'

As we watched fascinated, Arthur crept towards him, circling warily, sword held high in a two- handed grip. The master moved his shrouded head slowly from side to side, listening intently. The youth suddenly leaped forward, his blade slashing down towards the exposed neck. The older man parried the blow effortlessly and, twirling around full circle, cracked his weapon across the student's lower back.

'You're dead!', he cried, stepping back and throwing off his cap. He turned to his larger audience, raising his voice. 'Never, ever underestimate your enemy – you will only do it once!'

Turning from his panting opponent, Illtud, for it was so obviously him, saw us as we stood gaping and called, 'Ah! We have visitors! I hope that you have been made welcome.'

He threw down his sword and, bending to retrieve his cap, came across to us.

'Well,' he said, eyeing us up and down, 'It is not often that you find a Druid and a Christian priest travelling together as companions! And both shaved and wearing the Black Cowl'

'And it is not often that one comes across an open follower of Mithras in this day and age!', I replied, pointing at the red cap dangling from his left hand.

'Ah, yes', he laughed, not a little embarrassed, 'My first commander, in Armorica, was a traditionalist, and insisted that we were all initiated. I have tasted the bulls blood! - but not for many years.'

'A little more than initiation,' I said, pointing to his cap again. 'If I recall correctly, the Persian cap is only awarded at the fifth grade, is it not? Your commander must have been Pater of the seventh grade at least, in order to confirm you in the fifth.'

Illtud raised a quizzical eyebrow at me. 'Where did you learn that? Not many outsiders have that depth of knowledge.'

'Yes,' I replied, 'My teacher took me into the Mithreum in the ruins of the temple at Caer Moriddun and explained it's use. The slaughter of the bull, the use of the blood, the emblems of the rising grades and so on. I do not pretend to be an adept, though.'

'You still know more than most!' he laughed, turning away. 'Come, let us relax and eat.'

Just then, Arthur turned from where he was joking with his companions and saw us. He gave a great cry of joy and strode across to where we stood. 'By all the Gods! Myrddin and Dyfrig! How many years is it?' He grasped our arms and, laughing, said, 'You seem to have shrunk – both of you - since I last was with you!' Dyfrig punched Arthur's arm and replied, 'It's you who have grown, boy – or should I now say man? I am surprised that you recognised us!'

Illtud cut in. 'Off you go now, Arthur. You will have time to renew your acquaintanceship after sundown. Right now, you and your comrades have horses to see to!'

Looking rather crestfallen, but saluting his commander by slapping his fist to his chest, Arthur returned to his two friends and they walked off towards the stables, chattering loudly.

Turning away, Illtud led us across the exercise yard and into a military style dining hall. Raising his voice, he called out, 'Trynihid! We have visitors! Food!.' Turning to us he grinned.

'My wife will see to your needs. She is accustomed to unexpected visitors.' Seating us at the top table, he called for drink and we were soon in companionable conversation.

Food appeared in a remarkably short time; under the supervision of a smiling, slim, black-haired woman, who was obviously the Commander's long suffering wife and who disappeared promptly. When we had eaten and were settled with a flask of cider, I asked our host what his story was and how he had come to this out of the way spot.

'Well,' he sighed. 'Uthr is my uncle, my mother being Eigr's sister. My parents, in Armorica, wanted me to become a priest and sent me to the Bishop of Dol for instruction, but I was much too restless and, at the first opportunity, I quit and became a fighting man. As you can imagine, my parents were not exactly pleased by my decision but, me being of the age, they could not impose on me. I found that the life fitted me and that I seemed to have a certain aptitude for combat.'

Dyfrig laughed and said, 'If your demonstration in the yard, just now, is any indication, I would say that that is an understatement. But why have you ended up here,in the back of beyond, training young men?'

Our host took a deep draught from his cup, and replied. 'Hearing from my mother tales of the exploits of Uthr here in Britain and knowing that good fighters are always welcome, I came to Britain in search of fame and fortune. I found that Uthr was in the position of having such a reputation that he only takes men with much battlefield experience so, in spite of family ties, he suggested that I gain that experience with another lord. He referred me to Lord Pawl, here in Penychen, who is known for leading raiding parties into the Saxon lands, and I campaigned with him for a while.'

He paused and looked down at the table, shaking his head and his face grew serious. 'After a couple of campaigning seasons, I discovered two things about myself. Firstly, killing men was too easy for me. I became dulled by the way they fell so easily to my blade and I lost the joy in battle.' Here he sighed deeply and slashed the edge of his hand rhythmically down onto the table 'It became just so much chopping meat... again and again. Secondly, I found that I had a natural aptitude for instructing the young recruits. I went to Lord Pawl and begged to leave his service, explaining my reasons. I even told him that I was thinking of re-entering the Church, as my parents had wished. He asked for time to consider and, after three days, gave me this solution.' He waved his hand around the hall. 'He knew that, as a minor lord, he would always be counted as being in the second or third rank, that is, unless he could become known for something unique. He therefore proposed to take this once-famous place of learning before it totally crumbled to a ruin, and use it as a military training establishment for the brightest and best young men from across free Britain. He asked me to come here and use my skills to prepare the next generation of fighters.' Illtud barked out a laugh. 'Of course, it answered all of my problems and I accepted with joy. Even my wife accepted it after a while!

That was more than two years ago and now I have here the princes of most of the kingdoms of free Britain and I have to turn away many more young men who come pounding on the gate! My only problem is Lord Pawl's kinsman, Meirchion, who is the local Lord and has actual ownership of this valley. His is the caer towards the sea from here and I was installed here without him being consulted. He is known as 'Meirchion Wyllt' - 'Mad Meirchion' - because of his unpredictable temper and he periodically rampages down here with some petty grievance or other.'

Nodding, I broke in, 'How did Uthr's son get here. Did the Pendragon send him?' Illtud shook his head, setting his long moustaches swinging. 'No. As you may know, Uthr sent young Arthur up north, to Lord Cynyr of Penllyn, to be brought up with Cynyr's son, Cai. It was Cynyr who sent them both here. Cai was that long tall sapling with Arthur in the yard. They are as ready as may be to join Uthr's men.'

'Who was the other boy with them?' I asked then, 'The one with only one hand.'

'That,' replied our host, 'is Bedwyr. He is the son of Bedrog, one of Pawl's warband leaders and a man that I counted as comrade in many a skirmish with the Saxons!. The boy lost his right hand to a scythe in his fifth harvest and nearly bled out. He was a tough little case and was determined that he should not live his life as a cripple. He has pushed himself until he can handle a sword left- handed better than most with two hands. On top of that, he can throw a spear further and to more effect than anyone else I have ever encountered! His only drawback is that, having to strap on a shield to his right arm and use his weapon in his left, completely the reverse of his comrades, he cannot take his place in the shield wall. He will always have to fight as an individual and, of course, can never go into battle on horseback, although he loves to ride. Together however, the three of them watch each other's backs and have formed a tight unit that I foresee will last far into the future. It already stands them in good stead on their rare nights out on the town! You know what young men are like!' We all laughed. Illtud paused and shook his head. 'They have nearly finished their time here and will soon be leaving to join Uthr's men. That should steady them down! In fact, if you stop with us here on your way back from Caer Moriddun, you can all travel together back to Caerleon.'

Just then, there was a flurry of movement by the door and Arthur and his two companions entered, bathed and combed.

'Food!' cried Bedwyr, 'We have groomed and fed the horses and now we could eat like them!' 'Come sit with us, boys.' called Illtud. 'We were just talking about you.'

Arthur mimed horror. 'I hope that you have not told them about our nights out in Caerwent– They might tell my mother!'

'I was just getting round to that, but what little I know of your guilty secrets is safe with me.' laughed the Commander and added, in a sing-song chant that the others chorused familiarly, 'What happens in Caerwent stays in Caerwent – at least until it's old enough to walk!' The table rocked with the laughter that followed.

Later that evening, I sat with Prince Arthur and tried to bridge the years since last we met. Of course, our talk soon got round to Morgen and her mysterious disappearence.

'I was told that she met her companion at Penllyn shortly before she left for Ergyng. Was she a local woman?' I asked him. 'No!' replied the Prince, 'She arrived only a few days earlier. She and Morgen immediately became close friends. I didn't understand it – Morgen was usually very cautious and made friends slowly, but this time she formed an immediate bond with the visitor!' 'What was the woman's name?' I asked. 'I've no idea.' replied Arthur. 'All I know is that she looked like a younger sister to Morgen; the same eyes and hair, only slimmer and, I remember, she always wore a plain, black shift.'

I gasped and stared at him in disbelief. Could it be? It seemed impossible, but then all the facts fell into place and I had no doubt.

Niamh!

She had disappeared from Caer Moriddun shortly before and had not been seen since; and the looks were unmistakeable!

Yes! It had to be Niamh! At last I had a trail that might, just might, lead me to Morgen, and perhaps to my son!

The following morning, bleary–eyed from a very enjoyable evening of eating, drinking and companionship, we said our farewells, rode out of the gate and turned our mount's noses westwards. As we topped the rise, Dyfrig turned in his saddle to take a last look at the cluster of ancient buildings by the stream. He shook his head ruefully.

'I wish that I had found this place myself. It would make a magnificent monastery.'

I reached out and patted his shoulder. 'Don't worry, my friend – Mochros is place enough - and this place has a long future of it's own!'

'Do you really think so, Myrddin?'

I laughed and slapped his arm. 'I am a prophet, aren't I?'

So, suddenly in good humour, twitching our travelling cloaks around us we turned our mounts and, as we dropped down into the next vale, Illtud's little domain was lost from sight.