Stephen Lawhead - Merlin

I will tell you the truth: I did not in those days regard the child in any special way. Despite the hints I had received – the warnings one might say – he was merely an infant that required protection. He was the son of my dead friend, true. But that was all. Other matters were more pressing, or seemed so.

I turned to these and promptly forgot all about the child.

In the black month, the bleak month, when cold winds blow snow from the ice-bound north, the month of privation and death in which winter itself dies in the Christ Mass, the babe was born. Birth from death: it is the ancient and holy way of the earth. I consulted the oaken bowl, and stayed up five nights together to view the winter-clean sky. In this way I learned that the time was near.

Pelleas and I travelled to Tintagel and waited a little way off in the woods of the deep glen for the birth. I did not like to go up to the caer itself, for my coming would be noticed and discussed.

For three days we sat wrapped in our cloaks and furs before our small fire of oak twigs and pine cones, waiting. At midnight of the third night, as we sat watching, a strange thing happened: an enormous black bear came out of the woods, padded softly round the fire, snuffling at us warily, and ambled up the trail leading to the caer.

'Let us follow,' I whispered. 'Perhaps that fellow knows something that we should also learn.'

We followed and found the bear standing on its hind legs at the edge of the wood, its blackness sharp against the moon-bright snow. The beast's nose sniffed the seawind and its great head swung towards us as we approached, but the creature did not move. It remained for some little time, standing, looking up at Uther's fortress, and then, as if making up its own slow mind, lumbered on.

'Hunger has driven it from its lair,' remarked Pelleas. 'It goes to find food.'

'No, Pelleas, it goes to honour a birth.' I still remember the look Pelleas gave me, his face white hi the moonlight. 'Come, it is time.'

By the time we reached the gates, the great bear, by some means – animal strength perhaps – had gained entrance into the caer. The gateman, no doubt asleep at his watch when the beast appeared, had run away to raise the alarm, leaving the. gate unattended. Men with torches dashed here and there in confusion while the dogs barked wildly at the ends of their leashes, working themselves into a killing frenzy.

No one saw us slip through the gates and we made our way directly to the hall, and through it to the king's chamber. Ygerna lay in the room above, her women and a midwife or two gathered with her. But Uther remained below, alone, awaiting the birth.

The sword of Maximus lay unsheathed across his knee.

Uther glanced up as we entered: guilt writ large upon his features for all to see. I had caught him and he knew it.

'Oh, Merlin, you are here. I thought you would be.' He contrived to sound relieved. The sound of the chaos outside had entered with us, and Uther seized on this to aid him. 'By the Raven, what is that commotion?'

'A bear has entered your stronghold, Uther,' I told him.

'A bear.' He appeared to ponder this as if the thing bore deep significance for him, then said, 'My wife is not delivered of the child. You may as well sit – it will likely be some time yet.'

I motioned for Pelleas to find us some food and drink, and he disappeared behind the hanging hides into the hall. I sat down in Gorlas' big chair – Uther preferred his camp chair even in chamber – and studied die High King as he sat before me.

'I am disappointed, Uther,' I told him flatly. 'Why have you gone back on your word?'

'When did I promise anything?' he flung back angrily. 'You accuse me falsely.'

'Tell me I am mistaken then. Tell me that the sword across your knee is not for the babe. Tell me you did not intend to kill it.'

Uther frowned and turned his face away. 'By God, Merlin, you hound a man!'

'Well? My apology only awaits your denial.'

'I have nothing to deny! I do not answer to you, Meddler.'

'Does Ygerna know what you intend?'

'What would you have me do?' He jumped up and threw the sword on the table.

. 'Honour our agreement.' I told him, thinking of many other things I could have said. I was trying to make it easy for him.

Still the High King resisted. As I say, once Uther fastened on a thing, he was loth to give it up. And he had had a long time to work himself up to this. He stalked around the room, glaring at me. 'I agreed to nothing. It was all your idea – I never agreed.'

'That is untrue, Uther. It was your idea for me to take the child.'

'Well, I have thought better of it then,' he growled. 'What have you to do with this anyway? What is your interest?'

'Only this: that the son of Aurelius, and a blood descendant of Constantine, should not suffer death before he has tasted of life. Uther,' I said gently, 'he is your kin. By all laws of heaven and earth it would be a grievous crime to kill the child. The deed is not worthy of you, Uther – you, who let Octa, the son of your enemy, live. How will you justify killing the son of your brother, whom you loved most dearly?'

Uther snarled. 'You twist things!'

'I say only what is, Uther. Give it up! If not for the child's sake, then for your own. Do not think to enter God's rest with this black deed on your soul.'

The High King stood unmoved, feet apart, glaring baleful-ly, his mouth a firm line. Oh, he could be difficult.

'What is the use, Uther? Where is your gain?'

He had no answer, and made none. Neither did he give in.

'Very well,' I sighed. 'I had hoped to persuade you, but you leave me no choice.'

'What will you do?'

'I claim the promise you gave me, Uther. And I bind you with your honour to grant it.'

'What promise?' he asked warily.

'On the night I brought Ygerna out of the fortress, you promised me anything I desired. "Even to the half of my kingdom," you said, if I would deliver her to you. I fulfilled my half of the bargain, and asked nothing for myself at the time. Well, I make my claim now.'

'The child?' Uther was incredulous. Until this moment he had forgotten that promise. He remembered it full well now.

'The child, yes. I claim the child as my reward.' Uther was beaten and he knew it. But he was not about to give up so easily. 'You are a cunning hound,' he faced me squarely. 'What if I refuse?'

'Refuse me now and lose all honour and self-respect. Your name will become a curse. You will never command a man with authority again. Consider, Uther, and answer: is killing a helpless babe worth that?'

'All right!' He fairly burst with exasperation. 'Take it! Take the child and let there be an end to it!'

Presently, Pelleas returned with a jar of mead, cups, bread and cheese. He put these on the table and began pouring the cups. 'I could find no meat,' he said. The kitchens were empty.'

This is enough, Pelleas, thank you.' I turned to Uther and handed him a cup. 'I accept my reward, Uther,' I said lightly. 'Let us part as friends.'

The High King said nothing, but accepted the cup in one hand and a bit of bread in the other. We drank and ate together, and Uther calmed somewhat. But as his guilt and anger seeped away, he was left with the shame. He slumped in his chair and became despondent.

To shift his attention to something else, I said, 'What has become of that bear, I wonder? Perhaps we should go and see.'

We walked back through the empty hall and outside. The dogs had stopped barking and I thought by this that the bear must be killed. But no; it lived. The men had it cornered by the fortress wall, where, surrounded by torches and spears, the beast stood reared on its hind legs, its forepaws outspread, pelt bristling, claws extended, fangs bared. The yard was strangely quiet.