Yet, there was once a king worthy of that name. That king was Arthur.
It is the paramount disgrace of this evil generation that the name of that great king is no longer spoken aloud except in derision. Arthur! He was the fairest flower of our race, Cymry's most noble son, Lord of the Summer Realm, Pendragon of Britain. He wore God's favour like a purple robe.
Hear then, if you will, the tale of a true king.
BOOK ONE
PELLEAS
ONE
Arthur is no fit king. Uther's bastard, Merlin's pawn, he is lowborn and a fool. He is wanton and petty and cruel. A glutton and a drunkard, he lacks all civilized graces. In short, he is a sullen, ignorant brute.
All these things and more men say of Arthur. Let them.
When all the words are spoken and the arguments fall exhausted into silence, this single fact remains: we would follow Arthur to the very gates of Hell and beyond if he asked it. And that is the solitary truth.
Show me another who can claim such loyalty.
'Cymbrogi,' he calls us: companions of the heart, fellow-countrymen.
Cvmbrogi! We are his strong arm, his shield and spear, his blade and helm. We are the blood in his veins, the hard sinew of his flesh, the bone beneath the skin… We are the breath in his lungs,''the clear light in his eyes,I and the song rising to his lips. We are the meat and drink at his board.
Cvmbrogi! We are earth and sky to him. And Arthur is all these things to us – and more.
Ponder this. Think long on it. Only then, perhaps, will you begin to understand the tale I shall teU you.
How not? Who, besides the Emrys himself, knows as much as I? Though I am no bard, I am worthy. For I know Arthur as few others do; we are much alike, after all. We are both sons of uncertain birth, both princes unacknowledged by our fathers, both forced to live our lives apart from clan and kin.