The Endless Knot

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I marked the reaction, but the bowl arrived, frothing with new ale; I took it and pressed it into Cynan’s eager hands, and the moment passed. Cynan drank deeply and, wiping the creamy foam from his moustache on his sleeve, gave the bowl to his wife. She drank, and then passed the bowl on to Gweir, Cynan’s battle chief. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice.

  “I have missed you, my friend,” said Goewyn throwing off her damp cloak. She gathered Tángwen in her arms, and the two women exchanged kisses.

  “And it is good to see you,” Tángwen replied. “I have been looking toward this day for a long time.” She stretched her hands toward the fire, but I noticed that she still held herself as if she were cold. The rigors of the trail, no doubt—the cold and foul weather had put her on edge.

  “We would have arrived earlier,” Cynan put in, “but the mist slowed us. Still, I did not care to spend another night on the trail.”

  “Well, you are here now,” Goewyn said, taking Tángwen’s cloak from her shoulders. “Come, we will find you some dry clothes.”

  The women withdrew, leaving us to dry ourselves at the hearth. “Ah, this is good,” sighed Cynan. “And here was I thinking we would never arrive.”

  “I had forgotten you were coming,” I confessed.

  Cynan threw back his head and laughed. “That I could readily see. Here is Silver Hand, guarding the trail with his sword, challenging all comers. Could you not see it was me, man?”

  “Obviously, if I had seen it was you, Cynan,” I replied, “I would have let you wander lost in the fog.”

  “The fog! Do not talk to me about the fog!” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “It must be fierce indeed, if it daunts the renowned TwoTorcs,” observed Tegid.

  “Is that not what I am saying? This cursed mist has dogged us for days. I almost turned back because of it. But then I thought of your excellent ale, and so I asked myself, ‘Cynan Machae, why spend the season of snows in your own draughty hall, alone and lonely, when—’”

  “When you could be drinking Llew’s ale instead!” I finished the thought for him; he regarded me with a deeply wounded look.

  “Tch! The thought never entered my head,” Cynan scolded. “It is your friendship I crave, brother, not the fellowship of your vat. Although, now that you say it, your brewmaster is a very man among men.” He raised the bowl again and drank deep and long. “Ahh! Nectar!”

  “And I have missed you, too,” I told him. Seizing the bowl, I raised it to him. “Sláinte, Cynan TwoTorcs!” I drained the bowl—there was not much left in it—and called for it to be filled again. One of Tegid’s Mabinogi came running with a jar.

  “I would hear a good word about your harvest,” Tegid said as the bowl was refilled.

  “And I would speak a good word if I could,” Cynan replied, shaking his head slowly. “Dismal—that is the word. We could not get the grain out of the field for the rain. And then we lost much. But for last year’s bounty, we would be looking at a meager planting.”

  “It is the same with us,” I told him. “A good year that ended badly.”

  Sharing the bowl between us, we fell to talking about all that had happened since we had last seen one another. Goewyn and Tángwen returned to join us; Tángwen was now dressed in clean, dry robes, and her hair was combed and dressed. She appeared relaxed; the strained stiffness had left her and she was more herself.

  We moved to the table where food had been laid on the board. We began to eat, and I noticed how the two women talked happily to one another all through the meal. The way they talked and laughed together put me in mind of Goewyn with one of her sisters. Raised in the close companionship of Govan and Gwenllian, Goewyn had had no female friend since her sisters were killed.

  Scatha entered the hall as we were eating and approached the place where I sat. She bent near to speak a private word. “The watch is established,” she reported. “If anyone tries to cross the ridge wall, we will soon know it.”

  Nothing more was said about this, and indeed I gave it no further thought. The hall was warm and bright—made all the more so by Cynan’s arrival—and the conversation lively. I dismissed intruders from my mind.

  Nor did I think ill when Goewyn and Tángwen went riding the next day. The sentries had watched through the night, and the ridge remained clear of fog and mist; they had neither seen nor heard anyone. And when the mist cleared in the valley there was no trail to be found. So I let the matter go.

  Bran and the Raven Flight returned that same day. The watchers on the ridge saw them enter the valley and brought us word of their return. Tegid, Scatha, Cynan, and I rode out to meet them; and though they were filthy and tired from their journey, they were in good spirits.

  “Hail, Bran Bresal!” I called, eager for his news. “I trust you have had good hunting.”

  “The hunting was excellent,” the Raven Chief replied, “but we failed to corner our quarry.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Tegid remarked. “What happened?”

  “We found the trail as it left the valley,” Bran explained. “Indeed, it was not difficult to follow. But, though we pursued as far and as fast as we could, we never caught sight of those who made it.”

  “How many were you tracking?” I asked.

  “Three men on horseback, lord,” a muddy Alun Tringad answered.

  “Tell us everything now,” suggested Tegid. “Then we will have no need to speak of it within the hall.”

  “Gladly,” replied Bran, “but there is little enough to tell.” He went on to explain how they had followed the trail east all the way to the coast before losing it on the rocky strand. They had ranged north and south along the coast for a time without raising the trail again or seeing any sign of an invader, and so at last turned back. “I hoped to bring you better word, lord,” Bran told me.

  “You have returned safely,” I said. “I am well content.”

  The days dwindled down, growing colder and darker as if Sollen cramped and compacted them with an icy grip. But the hall remained snug and warm and alive with harpsong and fine companionship. We played games and listened to the old tales; we ate, drank, and took our ease, filling the long cold nights with laughter and light.

  The lake froze and the children of the crannog played on the ice. It was on one of those rare days, when the sun flared like a fiery gem in a blue-white sky, that we went out to watch the youngsters. A good many had carved strips of bone and tied them to their buskins. The simple skates worked extremely well, and everyone cheered to see the antics of these intrepid skaters.

  Cynan, enraptured by the gliding forms, strolled out onto the frozen lake and allowed himself to be cajoled into trying the skates. He cut such a comical figure that others took to the ice, eager to outdo him, if not in skill, then in absurdity. It was not long before there were more skaters than spectators.

  We slipped and slid over the ice, falling over ourselves, and improvising silly dances. A gaggle of young girls clustered around Goewyn, beseeching her to try the bone skates too. She quickly assented and tied the strips to her feet, then, holding out her hand to me, she said, “Take my hand! I want to fly!”

  I took her hand and pulled her around the windswept ice—laughing, her lips and cheeks red from the cold, her golden hair and blue-checked cloak flying. The sound of her laughter, and that of all the other skaters, bubbled up as from a fountain, sun-splashed and lavish, a hymn to the day.

  Around and around we twirled, stopping only to catch our breath and collapse into one another’s arms. The sun shone bright on the silver lake, and set the snow-crusted hilltops glittering like high-heaped diamond hoards. Such beauty, such joy—it made the heart ache to see it, to feel it.

  Cynan’s frolics, loudly embellished and featuring spectacular falls, carried the day. We laughed so hard the tears flowed down our cheeks. Nevertheless, I could not help but notice that of all those who had come to watch, only Tángwen refused to join in the fun. Instead, she stood on the boat landing with her arm
s crossed beneath her cloak and a pained look on her face.

  “I think someone does not appreciate our sport,” I whispered to Goewyn as I lifted her from her latest spill.

  Catching my gaze, Goewyn turned to observe her friend standing alone on the landing. “No,” she said slowly, “it is something else.”

  “Do you know?”

  She took my hand and pressed it. “Not now. Later,” she said, putting her face close to mine. Goewyn slipped her arms around my neck and pulled me close. “Come here.”

  A directness in her tone aroused my curiosity. “What?” Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved prettily. “What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “What are you hiding?”

  “Well, it will not remain hidden for long. The king’s wealth is increasing. Soon everyone will know.” She released me and pressed a hand to her stomach.

  “Wealth? Child-wealth?” She laughed at my surprise. “A baby! We are going to have a baby!” I threw my arms around her and hugged her tight—then remembered myself and released her, lest I crush the tiny life growing within her. “When? How long have you known?”

  “Long enough,” she said. “I was waiting for the right moment to tell you, but . . . well, it is such a splendid day I could not wait any longer.”

  “Oh, Goewyn, I love you.” I put my hand behind her head, held her, and kissed her long and hard. “I love you, and I am glad you did not wait. I am going to tell everyone—now!”

  “Shh!” she said, laying her fingertips on my lips. “Not yet. Let it be our secret for a few days.”

  “But I want to tell.”

  “Please—just a little while.”

  “At the solstice then,” I suggested. “We will have a celebration like the one last year at Cynan’s wedding. And in the middle of the feast we will make our announcement. Does anyone else know?”

  “No one,” she assured me. “You are the first.”

  “When will it be—the birth, I mean? When will the child be born?”

  Goewyn smiled, stepped into my embrace, kissed me, and put her cheek against my neck. “You will have your wife a while longer. The child will be born in Maffar—before Lugnasadh, I think.”

  “A fine time to be born!” I announced. “Goewyn, this is wonderful! I love you so much!”

  “Shh!” she cautioned. “Everyone will hear you.” She stepped backward, sliding away on the bone skates. Holding out her hands to me she called, “Come away, best beloved! I will teach you to fly!”

  We flew, and the day sped from us. Short, but brilliant in its perfection, it faded quickly: a spark fanned to life in the midst of gathering darkness. It illumined our hearts with its brave radiance and then succumbed to onrushing night.

  As the sun sank below the rim of hills, festooning the sky with streamers of rose and scarlet, a few sickly stars were already glowing in a black eastern sky. Night was spreading over Albion. Dazzled by my love for Goewyn, I saw the darkness and knew it not.

  That night we left the hall early. Goewyn took my hand and led me to our bed, now piled high with furs and fleeces against the cold. She loosened her belt and unwound it, then drew her mantle over her head and stood before me. Taking up the cup she had placed beside the fire-ring, she drank, watching me all the while. Her eyes never left mine.

  Her body, caressed by the rushlight, was a vision of softly rounded curves, beguiling in its smooth subtlety. She stepped toward me and put her hand to the back of my head, drawing me to her. I felt her body warm against me and, taking a handful of her hair, I held her head and kissed her open mouth. I tasted the rich warmth of honeyed mead on her tongue, and passion leapt like a flame within me. I abandoned myself to the heat.

  We shared the golden mead and made love that night in celebration of the child to be. The next day Goewyn was gone.

  16

  THE SEARCH

  I rose early, but Goewyn had already wakened and dressed. She came to my bed place, leaned over, kissed me, and said, “I did not want to wake you.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked, taking her hand and pulling her down on me. “Come back to bed—both of you.”

  “I promised to go with Tángwen,” she said.

  “Oh,” I yawned. “Where are you going?”

  “Riding.”

  “Would you abandon your husband in his cold, lonely bed? Come back and wait until the sun rises at least.”

  She laughed and kissed me again. “It will be light soon enough. Sleep now, my love, and let me go.”

  “No.” I raised my hand and stroked the side of her neck. “I will never let you go.”

  She nuzzled the hand and then took it and kissed the palm. “Tángwen is waiting.”

  “Take care, my love,” I said as she left. I lay in our bed for a while, then rose, dressed quickly, and went out. The night-black sky was fading to blue-gray and the stars were dim; away over the encircling hills to the east the sky blushed with blood-red streaks like slashes in pale flesh. There was no one in the yard; smoke from the cookhouses rose in a straight white column. I shivered with the cold and hurried across the yard to the hall.

  The hall was quiet, but a few people were awake and stirring. The hearth fire had been stoked and I walked to it to warm myself. Neither Goewyn nor Tángwen was to be seen, no doubt intending to break fast when they returned from their ride.

  Garanaw wakened and greeted me, and we talked until the oatcakes came out of the oven and were brought steaming into the hall. Seating ourselves at the board, we were quickly joined by Bran and a few of the early-rising Ravens, and some of Cynan’s retinue. Cynan himself arrived a short time later, noisily greeting everyone and settling himself on a bench. The oatcakes were hot and tasty; we washed them down with rich brown ale.

  Talk turned to hunting, and it was quickly agreed that a day spent in pursuit of deer or boar would be a day well spent. “We will savor our supper all the more for the chase,” Cynan declared; to which Alun quickly added, “And we will relish the chase all the more for a wager.”

  “Do my ears deceive me?” wondered Cynan loudly. “Is that Alun Tringad offering his gold?”

  “If you can bring back a bigger stag than the one I shall find, then you are welcome to the champion’s portion of my gold.”

  “I would be ashamed to take your treasure so easily,” quipped Cynan. “And I never would, were it not advisable to teach you a valuable lesson in humility.”

  “Then put your hand to it,” Alun told him, “and let us choose the men to ride with us. The sooner we ride, the sooner I will claim my treasure. Indeed, I can already feel the weight of your gold bracelets on my arm.”

  “Unless you hope to lull me to sleep with your empty boasting,” Cynan said, “you will soon see a hunter worthy of his renown. Therefore, I advise you to look your last upon your treasure.”

  Alun stood and called to his brother Ravens, “Brothers, I have heard enough of this haughty fellow’s idle talk. Let us show him what true hunters can do, and let us decide now how to divide his treasure among us.”

  Cynan also stood. “Llew, ride with me, brother,” he said, and he called others of his retinue by name. “Come, my friends, the chase is before us, and much good gold for our efforts.”

  They fixed the time for their return: “At sunset we will assemble in the yard,” Alun suggested.

  Cynan agreed. “And the Penderwydd of Albion will judge between us who has fared the better—although this will not be necessary, for it will be readily apparent to one and all which of us is the best hunter.”

  “True, true,” Alun affirmed casually. “That they will easily discern.”

  I glanced quickly around, but Tegid had not entered the hall. It did not matter, there would be time to talk to him later, when we returned from the hunt. The hall buzzed with eager voices as side wagers were laid, odds fixed, and amounts agreed. Snatching up the last of the oatcakes, we burst from the hall and hastened across the ice-bound lake to the cattle pens to fetch the horses. We saddled our mounts a
nd, with much friendly banter, rode out along the frozen lakeside.

  Cynan and I led the way, following the hoof tracks Tángwen and Goewyn had left in the new snow. Halfway to the wood, the track left the lakeside, leading away to the ridge. We continued around the lake, however, to the game runs on the long slopes. As soon as we entered the wood, we divided our number—those who rode with Alun went one way, and those of Cynan’s party the other.

  The sun rose above the rim of the hills and the day was good. There was snow on the game runs, but because of the trees it was not deep. We saw the tracks of scores of animals, but as it had not snowed for several days, it was impossible to tell which were fresh and which were older.

  We spread ourselves across the run and proceeded deeper into the silent sanctuary of the forest, our spears along our thighs as we pushed through the underbrush. The shadows of the trees formed a blue latticework on the crusted snow. The cold air tingled on the skin of my cheeks, nose, and chin. I had spread my cloak around me to capture the heat of the horse and help me keep warm. With a bright, white sun, a clear blue sky, and the company of valiant men, it was a fine day to hunt.

  I let those most eager take the lead and settled back to enjoy the ride. We followed the long run as it lifted toward the ridge; crossing a small stream, we scared a red deer sheltering in a blackthorn thicket. The hounds would have given chase, but Cynan was after bigger game, and forced them back onto the trail. His patience was rewarded a short time later when we came upon the fresh spoor of a small herd of deer.

  “It is still warm,” announced Cynan’s man as I joined them.

  “Good,” Cynan said. “Be alert, everyone. The prize is near.”

  We continued at a swifter pace and soon sighted the deer: three hinds and a big stag. The hounds did not wait to be called back a second time, but sounded the hunting cry and sped to the chase. The stag regarded the dogs with a large, inscrutable, dark eye, then lifted his regal head and belled a warning call to his little clan.

  The hinds lifted their tails and bounded as one into the thicket. Only when they were away did the stag follow. Rather than try to force a way through the tangle, we let the dogs run and gave ourselves to the chase.