The Chief Bard opened the proceedings in the usual way, proclaiming to one and all the remarkable thing which had come to pass. A new High King had arisen in Albion and was now making a Cylchedd of the realm to establish his rule . . . and so on.
The Ffotlae wore the hopeful, if not entirely convinced, expressions of people who had grown used to being cheated and lied to at every turn. They were respectful and appeared willing to believe, but the mere sight of me did not altogether reassure. Very well, I would have to win their trust.
So, when Tegid finished, I stood. “My people,” I said, “I welcome you.” I raised my hands; the sun caught the silver and flashed like white fire. This caused a great sensation, and everyone gaped wide-eyed at my silver hand. I held it before them and flexed the fingers; to my surprise, they all fell on their faces and hugged the ground.
“What is this?” I whispered to Tegid, who had joined me on the mound.
“They fear your hand, I think,” he replied.
“Well, do something, Tegid. Tell them I bring peace and goodwill— you know what to say. Make them understand.”
“I will tell them,” Tegid replied sagely. “But only you can make them understand.”
The Chief Bard raised his staff and told the frightened gathering what a fine thing it was rightly to revere the king and pay him heartfelt respect. He told them how pleased I was to receive their gift of homage, and how, now that Meldron had been defeated, they had nothing to fear, for the new king was no rampaging tyrant.
“Give them a cow,” I whispered. “Two cows. And a bull.”
Tegid raised his eyebrows. “It is for you to receive their gifts.”
“Their gifts? Look at them; they have nothing.”
“It is their place to—”
“Two cows and a bull, Tegid. I mean it.”
The bard motioned Alun to him and spoke some words into his ear. Alun nodded and hurried away, and Tegid turned to the people, telling them to rise. The king knew of their hardship in the Day of Strife, he said, and had brought them a gift as a token of his friendship and a symbol of the prosperity they would henceforth enjoy.
Alun approached them with the cattle. “These kine are given from the Aird Righ’s own herd for the upbuilding of your stock.” Then he asked for their chief to take possession of the cattle on behalf of the tribe.
This provoked some consternation among the Ffotlae; for, as one of the clansmen with us quickly explained, “Our lord was killed, and our chieftain went to serve Meldron.”
“I see.” I turned back to Tegid. “It seems we must give them a chief as well.”
“That is easily done,” the bard replied. Raising his staff, he stood before the people and said that it was the High King’s good pleasure to give them a new lord to be their chief and to look after them. “Who among you is worthy to become the lord of the Ffotlae?” he asked. There followed a brief deliberation in which various opinions were expressed, but one name eventually won out, apparently to everyone’s satisfaction. “Urddas!” they clamored. “Let Urddas be our chief.”
Tegid looked to me to approve the choice. “Very well,” I said, “have Urddas step forward. Let us have a look at him.”
“Urddas,” Tegid called. “Come and stand before your king.”
At this the crowd parted, and a thin, dark-haired woman approached the mound. She regarded us with deep, sardonic eyes, a look of defiance on her lean, expressive face. “Tegid,” I said under my breath, “I think Urddas is a woman.”
“Possibly,” he replied in a whisper.
“I am Urddas,” she said, removing any doubt. I glanced at Goewyn, who was obviously enjoying our momentary confusion.
“Hail, Urddas, and welcome,” Tegid offered nicely. “Your people have named you chieftain over them. Will you receive the respect of your clan?”
“That I will,” the woman replied—three words, but spoken with such authority that I knew the Ffotlae had chosen well. “Nor will it be to me an unaccustomed honor,” she added, “for I have been leading my clan since their lord, my husband, was killed by Mór Cù. If I am acknowledged in this way, it is no less than my right.”
Her speech had an edge, and why not? The clan had been through hell, after all—but it was not rancor or pride that made her speak so. I think she simply wanted us to know how things were with them. No doubt she found blunt precision more suited to her purpose than affable ambiguity. It could not have been easy ruling a clan under Meldron’s cruel regime.
“Here, then, is your king,” Tegid told her. “Will you acknowledge his sovereignty, pledge him fealty, and pay him the tribute due?”
Urddas did not answer at once—I believe I would have been disappointed if she had. But she cast her cool, ironic eyes over me as if she were being asked to estimate my worth. Then, still undecided, she glanced across at the cattle I had bestowed upon the clan.
“I will own him king,” the woman replied, turning back. But I noticed she was looking at Goewyn as she answered—as if whatever lack she saw in me was more than made up by my queen. Presumably, if I could woo and win a woman of Goewyn’s distinction, then perhaps there was more to me than first met her dubious eye.
Tegid administered the oath of fealty then, and when it was completed, the woman came to me, knelt before me, and held her head against my breast. When she rose once more, it was to the acclaim of the Ffotlae. She ordered some of the younger men to take the cows and bull—lest I change my mind.
“Urddas,” I said as she made to return to her place. “I would hear from you how you have fared through this ill-favored time. Stay after the llys is completed and we will share a bowl between us—unless something else would please you more.”
“A bowl with the Aird Righ would please me well,” she replied forthrightly. Only then did I see her smile. The color came back to her face, and her head lifted a little higher.
“That was well done,” Goewyn said softly, stroking me lightly on the back of the neck.
“Small comfort for the loss of a husband,” I said, “but it is something at least.”
There were several lengthy matters to arbitrate—mostly arising from the troubles that had multiplied under Meldron. These were prudently dealt with, whereupon Tegid concluded the llys and, after leading the combined tribes in a simple oath of fealty, declared clan Ffotlae under the protection of the Aird Righ. To inaugurate this new accord, we hosted them at a feast and the next day sent them back to Gwynder Gwydd, loudly praising the new king.
This was to become the pattern for the rest of the circuit through Llogres. Sadly, some previously well-populated districts or cantrefs were now uninhabited, either abandoned or destroyed. Our messengers rode far and wide, to the caers and strongholds and to the hidden places in the land. And at each place where we found survivors—at Traeth Eur, Cilgwri, Aber Archan, Clyfar Cnûl Ardudwy, Bryn Aryen, and others, our messengers proclaimed the news: The High King is here! Gather your people, tell everyone, and come to the meeting place where he welcomes all who will own him king.
The years of Meldron’s cruelty had wrought a ghastly change in the people. The fair folk of Albion had become pale, thin, haggard wraiths. It tore at my heart to see this noble race degraded so. But I found solace in the fact that we were able to deliver so many from the fear and distress that had held them for so long. Take heart, we told them, a new king reigns in Albion; he has come to establish justice in the land.
As the Cylchedd progressed, we all—each man and woman among us—became zealous bearers of the glad tidings. The news was everywhere greeted with such happiness and gratitude that the entire entourage strove with one another to be allowed to ride with the message just to share in the joy the tidings brought.
Indeed, it became my chief delight to see the transformation in the listeners’ faces when they at last understood that Meldron was dead and his war host defeated. I could almost see happiness descend upon the people like a shining cloud as the truth took hold within them. I saw bent b
acks straighten and dead eyes spark to life. I saw hope and courage rekindled from dead, cold ashes.
The Year’s Wheel revolved and the seasons changed. The days were already growing shorter when we finished in Llogres and turned toward Caledon. We had arranged to winter at Dun Cruach, before resuming the Cylchedd. I was for going home, but Tegid said that once begun, I could not return to Dinas Dwr until the round was completed. “The course must not be broken,” he insisted. So Cynan would have the pleasure of our company through Sollen, Season of Snows.
9
ALBAN ARDDUAN
We arrived in Caledon just as the weather broke. Rain pelted down and wind whined as we passed through the gates. It was a relief to abandon our tents for the warmth and light of a friendly hall. Cynan and the Galanae threw open the doors and gathered us in.
“Llew! Goewyn!” Cynan cried, throwing his arms around us. “Mo anam! But we expected you days ago. Did you get lost?”
“Lost! Goewyn, did you hear that? I will have you know, Cynan TwoTorcs, that I have personally inspected every track, trail, and footpath in Llogres and most of Caledon. Truly, the deer in the glens will lose their way before Llew Silver Hand.”
“Ah, Goewyn,” Cynan sighed, and I noticed he had not taken his arm from around her. “Why did you ever marry such an ill-tempered man? You should have married me instead. Now look what you must suffer.” He shook his head sadly and clucked his tongue.
Goewyn kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Alas, Cynan,” she sighed, “if only I had known.”
“All this talk of marriage,” I remarked. “Are you trying to tell us something?”
The big warrior became suddenly bashful. “Now that you say it, brother, I believe I have found a woman much to my liking.”
“That is half the battle, to be sure,” I replied. “But, more to the point, will she have you?”
“Well,” Cynan allowed with uncommon reticence, “we have talked and she has agreed. It so happens, we will be married while you are here.”
“At the solstice perhaps,” suggested Tegid; he had overheard everything. “It will be a highly favorable time—the Alban Ardduan.
” “Welcome, Penderwydd,” Cynan said warmly, grasping his arms and embracing Tegid like a wayward brother.
“What is this Alban Ardduan?” I wondered aloud, “I have never heard of it.”
“It is,” the bard explained slowly, “the one solstice in a thousand coinciding with a full moon.”
“And,” Goewyn continued, taking up where Tegid had left off, “both setting sun and rising moon stand in the sky at once to regard one another. Thus, on the darkest day, darkness itself is broken.”
I remembered with a pang that Goewyn, like her sisters, had once been a Banfáith in a king’s house. Govan and Gwenllian were dead, and of the three fair sisters of Ynys Sci, Goewyn alone survived.
“That is why,” Tegid resumed, “it is a most auspicious time—a good day to begin any endeavor.”
“Yes, do it then,” I urged. “If ever a man stood in need of such aid, it is you, brother.” My eyes swept the busy hall. “But where is she, Cynan? I would meet the lady who has won your heart.”
“And I thought you would never ask!” he cried happily. He turned and motioned to someone standing a little behind him. “Ah! Here she comes with the welcome cup!”
We all turned to see a willowy young woman with milk-white skin and pale, pale blue eyes, advancing toward us with a great steaming bowl of mulled ale between her long, smooth hands. It was easy to see how she had captured Cynan’s notice, for her hair was as fiery red as his. She wore it long and it hung about her shoulders in such a mass of curls as a man could get lost in. She stepped briskly, regarding us steadily; there was an air of boldness about her. In all, she looked more than a match for Cynan.
“My friends,” said Cynan expansively, “this is Tángwen, the fortunate woman who has agreed to become my wife.”
Smiling, she offered the bowl to me, saying, “Greetings, Silver Hand.” Her voice was low and smoky. At my expression of surprise, she smiled knowingly and said, “No, we have never met. You would remember if we had, I think. But Cynan has told me so much about you that I feel I know you like a brother. And who else wears a hand of silver on his arm?” She gave me the bowl, and as I took it from her, she let her fingertips stroke my silver hand.
I drank the warming liquid and returned the bowl to Tángwen. She passed it to Tegid. “I give you good greeting, Penderwydd,” she said. “You, I would know even without the rowan. There is only one Tegid Tathal.”
Tegid raised the bowl, drank, and returned it, watching the red-haired charmer all the while. Tángwen, cool under his gaze, turned next to my queen. “Goewyn,” she said softly, “I welcome you most eagerly. Since coming to Dun Cruach, I have heard nothing but praise for Llew’s queen. We will be good friends, you and I.”
“I would like that,” Goewyn replied, accepting the bowl. Though she smiled, I noticed that Goewyn’s eyes narrowed as if searching for some sign of recognition in the other woman.
Then Tángwen raised the bowl to her own lips, saying, “Greetings and welcome friends. May you find all you wish to find in your stay among us, and may that stay be long.”
All this was accomplished under Cynan’s proud gaze. Obviously, he had schooled her well. She knew us all and spoke frankly and directly. Her forthright manner took me aback somewhat, but I could see how it would appeal to Cynan; he was not a man to endure much simpering.
Having served us, Tángwen moved on to welcome Bran and the Ravens who had just entered. We watched her lithe form glide away. Cynan said, “Ah, she is a beauty, is she not? The fairest flower of the glen.”
“She is a wonder, Cynan,” I agreed. “But who is she, and where did you find her?”
“She is no stranger to a king’s hall,” Goewyn observed. “I am thinking Tángwen has served the welcome bowl before.”
“You cut straight to the heart of it,” Cynan replied proudly. “She is the daughter of King Ercoll, who was killed in a battle with Meldron. Her people have been wandering Caledon in search of a steading and came to us here. I saw at once that she was of noble bearing. She will make a fine queen.”
Gradually, the hall had filled with people. Food had been prepared in anticipation of our arrival, and when it appeared, Cynan led us to our places at his table. We ate and talked long into the night, enjoying the first of many pleasant meals around the winter hearth.
Thus we passed the winter at Dun Cruach amiably. When the sun shone, we rode over the misty hills or walked the soggy moors, slipping over wet rocks and scaring up grouse and partridges. When the sleet rattled on the thatch, or snow whirled down in the north wind’s frigid wake, we stayed in the hall and played games—brandub and gwyddbwyll and others—as we had done when wintering on Ynys Sci.
Each night Tegid filled the hall with the enchanting music of his harp. It was joy itself to sit in that company, listening to the stories Albion’s kings had heard from time out of mind. I counted every moment blessed.
As the day of Cynan and Tángwen’s wedding drew near, Tegid let it be known that he was preparing a special song for the occasion. Though many asked what the tale would be, he would say no more than that it was an ancient and powerful story, and one which would bring great blessing to all who heard it.
Meanwhile, Goewyn and Tángwen attended to the preparations for the celebration. They were often together and appeared to enjoy one another’s company. I thought them a strikingly beautiful pair, and thought Cynan and myself the two most fortunate men in all Albion to boast such women as wives.
Cynan was well pleased with his choice and remarked often on the happy circumstance that brought her to his door. “She might have wandered anywhere,” he said, “but she happened to come here, to me.”
I saw little more than simple chance in it, but what did that matter? If Cynan wanted to believe that some extraordinary destiny had brought them together, who was I to disagr
ee?
In any event, Tángwen had firmly established herself at the center of Cynan’s household. Neither timidity nor humility found much of a patron in her; she was intelligent and capable and saw no reason to affect a meekness or modesty she did not naturally possess. Still, there was something about her—something driven, yet strangely constrained. She often stood apart when Tegid sang, watching from the shadows, her expression almost derisive, scornful—as if she disdained joining us, or spurned the pleasure of the gathering. Other times, she seemed to forget herself and joined in with a will. I felt somehow she was following the dictates of a scheme, rather than the promptings of her heart. And I was not the only one to notice.
“There is a hidden place in her soul,” Goewyn said one night when we had retired to our sleeping quarters. “She is confused and unhappy.”
“Unhappy? Do you think so? Maybe it is just that she is afraid of being hurt again,” I suggested.
Goewyn shook her head slightly. “No, she wants to befriend me, I think, but there is something cold and hard in her that will not let her. Sometimes I wish I could just reach into her heart and pluck it out, and then all would be well with her.”
“Perhaps that is her way of covering the pain.”
Goewyn looked at me oddly. “Why do you say she has been hurt?”
“Well,” I said slowly, thinking aloud, “Cynan said that her father had been killed in a battle against Meldron. I suppose I simply assumed Tángwen, like so many we have met along the way, still carried that grief.”
“Perhaps,” Goewyn allowed, frowning in thought.
“But you think otherwise?”
“No,” she said after a moment. “That must be it. I am certain you are right.”
The days dwindled, shrinking down toward Alban Ardduan and Cynan’s wedding. The Galanae war band and the Raven Flight had stocked the cookhouse with wild game of all kinds, and the cooks kept the ovens glowing hot, preparing food for the feast. The brewer and his helpers, foreseeing strong demand for the fruit of their labor, worked tirelessly to fill the vats with mead and ale. On the day before the wedding, the fattened pigs were slaughtered, and the next morning we awoke in the dark to the aroma of roast pork.
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