The Endless Knot

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  At supper one night after the Ravens had returned from disposing of Paladyr, Tegid rose and stood before the hearth. Those looking on assumed he meant to sing, and so began calling out the names of songs they would hear. “The Children of Llyr!” clamored some. “Rhydderch’s Red Stallion!” shouted someone else, to general acclaim. “Gruagach’s Revenge!” another suggested, but was shouted down.

  Tegid simply shook his head and announced that he could not sing tonight or any other night.

  “Why?” everyone wanted to know. “How is it that you cannot sing?”

  The wily bard answered, “How can I think of singing when the Three Fair Realms of Albion stand apart from another, with no king to establish harmony between their separate tribes?”

  Leaning close to Goewyn, I said, “I smell a ruse.”

  Turning to me, Tegid declared that as Aird Righ, it must certainly be foremost among my thoughts to ride the circuit of my lands and establish my rule in the kingdom.

  “To be sure,” I replied lightly, “my thoughts would have arrived there sooner or later.” To Goewyn, I whispered, “Here it comes.”

  “And since you are the High King,” he announced, brandishing his staff with a flourish, “you will extend the glory of your reign to all who shelter beneath your Silver Hand. Therefore, the Cylchedd you contemplate will include all lands in the Three Fair Realms so that Caledon, Prydain, and Llogres will be brought under your sovereign authority. For all must own you king, and you must receive the honor and tribute of the Island of the Mighty.”

  This speech was delivered to a largely unsuspecting throng and so took them by surprise. It took me somewhat unawares as well, but as he spoke I began to see the logic behind Tegid’s high flown formality. Such an important undertaking demanded a certain ceremony. And the people of Dinas Dwr promptly understood the significance of Tegid’s address.

  It was not the first time the Chief Bard had used the title Aird Righ, of course. However, it was one thing to speak the words here in Dinas Dwr among my own people, but quite another actively to proclaim this assertion in the world beyond the protecting ridge of Druim Vran.

  Whispers hissed through the crowd: “Aird Righ! Llew Silver Hand is the High King!” they said. “Did you hear? The Chief Bard has proclaimed him Aird Righ!”

  There was a solid reason behind Tegid’s proclamation: he was anxious to establish the Sovereignty of Albion beyond all doubt. A worthy venture, it seemed to me. All the same, I wished he had warned me. Strictly speaking, I did not share Tegid’s enthusiasm for the High Kingship—which is, no doubt, why he chose to announce the Cylchedd the way he did.

  Whatever my misgivings, Bran and the Raven Flight, and the rest of the war band, supported Tegid and fairly thundered their endorsement. They banged their cups and slapped the board with their hands; they raised such an uproar that it was some time before Tegid could continue.

  The Penderwydd stood there smiling a supremely self-satisfied smile, watching the commotion he had caused. I felt the touch of a cool hand on my neck and glanced up. Goewyn had come to stand beside me. “It is no less than your right,” she said, her breath warm in my ear.

  When the furor had subsided somewhat, Tegid continued, explaining that the circuit would begin in Dinas Dwr as I held court among my own people. And then, when all the proper preparations had been made, I would ride forth on a lengthy tour of Albion.

  Tegid had a lot more to say, and said it well. I listened with half an ear, wondering if, as he claimed, the circuit would actually take a year and a day—an estimate I took to be more a poetic approximation than an actual calculation. Be that as it may, I knew it would not be accomplished quickly or easily, and I found myself working out the details even as Tegid spoke.

  “Listen, bard,” I said as soon as we were alone together, “I am all for riding the Cylchedd, but you might have told me you were going to announce it.”

  Tegid drew himself up. “Are you displeased?”

  “Oh, sit down, Tegid. I am not angry. I just want to know. Why did you do it?”

  He relaxed and sat down. We were together in my hut; since the wedding, Goewyn and I preferred the privacy of the one-room hut to the busy bedlam of the hall.

  “Your kingship must be declared before the people,” he said simply. “When a new king takes the throne, it is customary to make a Cylchedd of his lands. Also, as Aird Righ, it is necessary to obtain the fealty of other kings and their people in addition to that of your own chieftains and clansmen.”

  “I understand. How soon will we leave Dinas Dwr?”

  “As soon as adequate preparation can be made.”

  “How long will that take? A couple of days? Three or four?”

  “Not longer.” He paused, regarding me eagerly. “It will be a wonderful thing, brother. We will establish the honor of your name and increase your renown throughout all Albion.”

  “Has it occurred to you that some of Meldron’s mongrel horde may yet ride free? They might disagree with you.”

  “All the more reason for the Cylchedd to be made at once. Any who still lack proper understanding must be convinced. We shall travel with a war band.”

  “And will it really take all year? I am newly married, Tegid, and I had hoped to stay close to home for a while.”

  “But Goewyn will accompany you,” he said quickly, “and anyone else you choose. Indeed, the larger the procession, the greater your esteem in the eyes of the people.”

  I could see that Tegid considered the circuit a great show of pomp and power. “This is going to be a huge undertaking,” I mused.

  “Indeed!” he declared proudly. “It will be like nothing seen in Albion since the time of Deorthach Varvawc.” I saw that this meant more to him than he let on. Well, I thought, let him have his way. After all he had been through with Meldron, he had earned it. Maybe we both had.

  “Deorthach Varvawc,” I remarked, “now who could forget a name like that?”

  The preparations went forward with all haste. Four days later I was looking at a veritable train of wagons, chariots, and horses. It appeared that the entire population of Dinas Dwr planned to make the journey with us. Enough would stay behind, I hoped, to look after the fields and proceed with the restoration of the crannog. All well and good to go wandering all over Albion, but there were crops to be gathered and herds to be maintained, and someone had to do it.

  In the end, it was agreed that Calbha would remain in Dinas Dwr while we were gone. Meldron had destroyed the Cruin King’s stronghold at Blár Cadlys, so gathering enough supplies, tools, and provisions to begin rebuilding would occupy Calbha a good while yet. Thus, he became the logical choice to stay behind. Much as he would have liked to accompany us, he agreed that time was best spent looking after the affairs of his people.

  And as there were young warriors to train, Scatha elected to stay behind with her school. Three Ravens would stay with her to aid the training of the young and enough warriors to protect Dinas Dwr.

  The day before we were due to set off, Tegid summoned the people to the hall. When all had gathered, I took the throne and, looking out upon the faces of all those gazing expectantly at me, I felt—not for the first time—the immense weight of duty settling upon me. This would have been daunting if I had not sensed an equally great strength of tradition helping to shoulder the burden. I could bear the weight, because others had borne it before me, and their legacy lived on in the spirit of sovereignty itself.

  It came to me as I sat there on my antlered throne that I could be a king, even a High King, not because I knew anything about being a king—much less because I was somehow more worthy than anyone else—but because the people believed in my kingship. That is to say, the people believed in sovereignty and were willing, for the sake of that belief, to extend their conviction to me.

  It might be that the Chief Bard held the power to confer or withhold kingship, but that power derived from the people. “A king is a king,” Tegid was fond of saying, “but a bard i
s the heart and soul of the people; he is their life in song, and the lamp which guides their steps along the paths of destiny. A bard is the essential spirit of the clan; he is the linking ring, the golden cord which unites the manifold ages of the clan, binding all that is past with all that is yet to come.”

  At last, I began to grasp the fundamental fact of Albion. I understood, too, Simon’s deadly design: in attacking sovereignty, he had struck at the very heart of Albion. Had he succeeded in killing kingship at the root, Albion would have ceased to exist.

  “Tomorrow,” the Chief Bard announced, “Llew Silver Hand will leave Dinas Dwr to make Cylchedd of his lands and receive the homage of his brother kings and the tribes of the Three Fair Realms. Before he gains the esteem of others, however, it is fitting for his own people to pledge faith with him and honor him.”

  Tegid raised his staff and thumped it on the floor three times. He called for all chieftains—be they kings, noblemen, or warriors—to pay homage to me, and to swear oaths of fealty which he spoke to them. I had only to receive their pledges and grant them protection of my reign. As each chieftain finished reciting his oath, he knelt before me and placed his head against my chest in a gesture of submission and love.

  One by one, beginning with Bran Bresal, they came before me: Alun, Garanaw, Emyr, Drustwn, Niall, Calbha, Scatha, Cynan. These were followed by several of those who had come to Dinas Dwr during Meldron’s depredations, and lastly by those who had surrendered at Meldron’s defeat. To receive the honor of such men touched me deeply. Their oaths bound them to me and, no less securely, bound me to them.

  When the ceremony was finished, I was more than ever a king— and more eager to see Albion once more.

  We crossed Druim Vran just as the sun was rising behind the encircling hills. As we started down the ridge trail, I paused to look back along the line to see that the last of the wagons had yet to leave the lakeside.

  If, as Tegid suggested, the size of an entourage could increase a king’s esteem, then mine was multiplied a hundredfold at least. Altogether there were sixteen wagons with supplies and provisions, including livestock— a larder on the hoof—and extra horses for the hundred or so men and women attending us as cooks, camp hands, warriors, messengers, hunters, and stockmen. Leading the cavalcade were my Chief Raven, Bran Bresal, Emyr Lydaw bearing the great battle carynx, and Alun Tringad, astride high-stepping horses. Next came the Penderwydd of Albion—attended by his Mabinogi—and, behind them, Goewyn, on a pale yellow horse, and myself on a roan. Following us were the war band, and behind them the wagons in a long, long rolling file.

  The valley below flooded with light, glowing like an emerald, and my heart soared at the prospect of traveling through this extraordinary land—the more so with Goewyn by my side and the fellowship of amiable companions. I had forgotten how fair Albion could be. Ablaze with color and light: the rich greens of the tree-filled glens and the delicate mottled verdure of the high moors, the dazzling blue of the sun-washed sky, the subtle grays of stone and the deep browns of the earth, the sparkling silver of water, the shimmering gold of sunlight.

  I had ranged far through the land on my various forays, and still it held the power to astonish. A glimpse of white birches stark against a background of glossy green holly, or the sight of blue cloud shadow gliding down distant hillsides could leave me gasping with wonder. Marvelous it was—all the more so since Albion had endured the ravages of fire and drought and unending winter. The land had suffered through the desolation of Lord Nudd and his demon horde, and the depredations of the Great Hound Meldron. Yet it appeared reborn.

  There must have been some unseen agent toiling away to bring about a continual renewing of the land, for there was no trace of desolation anywhere, no lingering scars, no visible reminders of the tortures so recently endured. Perhaps its splendors were constantly restored, or perhaps Albion was somehow created anew with each dawn. For it seemed that every tree, hill, stream, and stone had just burst into existence from sheer creative exuberance.

  After two days of this, I was a man enraptured with existence—not only my own, but the entire universe as well. My enchantment extended to the moon and stars and the dark void beyond. Had I been a bard, I would have sung myself dizzy.

  As we traveled further, I grew, slowly but surely, more sensitive to the beauty of the land around me. I began to sense a momentous glory radiating from every form that met my eye—every limb and leaf, every blade of grass ablaze with unutterable grandeur and majesty. And it seemed to me that the world I saw before me was merely the outward manifestation of a vastly powerful, deeply fundamental reality that existed just out of sight. I might not discern this veiled reality directly, but I could perceive its effects. Everything it touched set it vibrating like a string on Tegid’s harp. I thought that if I listened very hard I might hear the hum of this celestial vibration. Sometimes I imagined that I did hear it—like the echo of a song that lingered just beyond the threshold of hearing. I could not hear the melody, only the echo.

  The reason for this delight was, partly, Goewyn. I was so enraptured by her that even Nudd’s hostage pit would have seemed like paradise if she were there. As we traveled through the revived splendor of Albion, I began to realize that I now viewed the world through different eyes. No longer a sojourner, a trespassing transient merely visiting a world that was not my home, I belonged; Albion was my home now. Indeed, I had taken an Otherworld woman for my wife. So far from being a stranger, I was now a king. I was the Aird Righ. Who belonged in Albion if not the High King?

  The king and the land were connected in an intimate and mysterious way. Not in some abstract philosophical way, but actually, physically. The relationship of the king to the land was that of man to wife—the people of Albion even spoke of it as a marriage. And now that I was married myself, I was beginning to understand—no, to feel it: the concept was still well beyond my comprehension, but I could discern wisdom taking shape in my flesh and bones. I could sense an ancient, primal truth I could not yet put into words.

  Thus, the Cylchedd began to take on the quality of a pilgrimage, a journey of immense spiritual significance. I might not apprehend the full meaning of the pilgrimage, less still its more delicate implications, but I could feel, like gravity, its irresistible, inexorable, inescapable power. I did not find this in any way burdensome; all the same, like a soul clothed in flesh, I knew that I would never move without it again.

  By day we journeyed through a landscape made sublime by the light of a fulgent sun, imparting an almost luminous splendor to all it touched, creating shimmering horizons and shining vistas on every side. By night we camped under an enormous sky bowl bursting with stars, and went to our rest with the blessed sound of harpsong in our ears.

  In this way we reached our first destination: Gwynder Gwydd, clan seat of the Ffotlae in Llogres. As it happened, there were Ffotlae with us, and they were eager to discover whether their kinsmen still survived.

  We established camp on a meadow near a standing stone called Carwden, the Crooked Man, which the Ffotlae used as a meeting place. There was a lively brook running through the meadow, which was surrounded by woodlands of young trees. As soon as the tents were erected, Tegid sent the Raven Flight out as messengers into the region, and we settled back to wait.

  Meanwhile, we had brought my stag-antler chair with us, and Tegid directed that a small mound be raised before the Carwden stone and the chair be placed on the mound. The next morning, following Tegid’s counsel, Goewyn and I dressed in our best clothing— for Goewyn a white shift with Meldryn Mawr’s golden fish-scale belt I had given her, and a skyblue cloak; for me, a cloak of red edged with gold over a green siarc, and blue breecs. I wore a belt of huge gold discs, an enormous gold brooch, and my gold torc. Goewyn had to help me with the brooch—I had grown accustomed to managing without a right hand, but I was still unused to my silver hand.

  Goewyn fastened the brooch for me, then stepped quickly away again to appraise me with a critical eye
. She did not like the way I had folded the cloak, so she deftly adjusted it. “Everything in place?” I asked.

  “If I had known you were going to make such a handsome king, I would have married you long ago,” she replied, slipping her arms around my neck and kissing me. I felt the warmth of her body and was suddenly hungry for her. I pulled her more tightly to me . . . and the carynx sounded.

  “Tegid’s timing is impeccable,” I murmured.

  “The day is yet young, my love,” she whispered flirtatiously, then straightened. “But now your people are arriving. You must prepare to greet them.”

  We stepped from the tent to see a fair-sized throng advancing across the meadow to the Carwden stone. The people of Gwynder Gwydd and surrounding settlements had gathered—sixty men and women, the remnant of four or five tribes. The Ffotlae among us were overjoyed to see their kinsmen again, and welcomed them with such cheering and crying that it was some time before the llys could begin. Then Tegid commanded Emyr to sound the carynx once more. The bellow of the battle horn signaled the beginning of the court; Goewyn and I walked to the mound and took our places: myself on the throne, and she beside it, where she would be most conspicuous. Tegid wanted them to recognize and honor their queen.

  The people of Gwynder Gwydd, eager to cast their eyes on this wonder of a new king—and his ravishing queen—crowded close to the mound for a good view. This gave me a chance to observe them as well. Plainly, they had suffered. Some were maimed, many were scarred from beatings or torture, and despite the renewing of the land, all were still gaunt from misery and lack of food. They had come dressed in their best clothes, and these were but well-laundered tatters, for the most part. Meldron had exacted a heavy price for his kingship, and they had been made to pay it.