Maelgwn felt dizzy and weak, and the image of Rhiannon's terrified face flickered in his mind. It had been so real. His hands still shook at the thought of his sword slicing through the smooth white skin of her neck. And yet, it had not been Rhiannon at all—merely a wild-eyed Irishman whose tresses were a similar shade.
Maelgwn tested his ankle, trying to see how badly it was injured. Despite some swelling, he could walk. He began to search for Cynraith. The stallion had left the battlefield soon after losing his rider. Maelgwn found him grazing contentedly on the dried brown reeds and grasses along the shoreline.
"I'm glad they didn't hurt you," he whispered as he stroked the stallion's velvety nose. Cynraith tossed his head and stared back at Maelgwn with his dark, rust-colored eyes.
Maelgwn mounted, wincing with pain as he threw his injured leg over the horse's back, then rode back to the beach. It had not been a particularly bloody engagement, but the stench of death seemed to be everywhere, turning his stomach. He ignored the queasiness and forced himself to shout orders at his men. He knew they would do what was necessary without being told, but acting the role of commander helped him maintain control over his precarious emotions.
The Cymry returned the fallen Irishmen to the sea and gathered up the wounded. A few men remained behind to guard the captives. Maelgwn and the main part of the force rode home through the bone-numbing chill of winter twilight.
When they reached Degannwy, Maelgwn mumbled a few words to his officers and slipped away. He washed, stopped in the kitchen for a few bites of mutton stew, then sought the solace of his council room. He had barely lit the brazier and pulled up a stool when he heard the door open. He stiffened and put down the skin of mead. He dreaded company; even Rhun would be unwelcome tonight.
The shadow on the wall loomed gigantic, and Maelgwn guessed his visitor was Balyn. He took a swallow of mead, then another, before he turned to greet his friend.
"Balyn, come join me." His voice was forced. He could not pretend to welcome this intrusion, but neither could he send Balyn away. The man had saved his life. Again.
Balyn did not speak but dragged another stool over to the brazier and sat down with a huge sigh. A quick glance roused Maelgwn's guilt. Balyn looked awful. The wound on his temple was livid against his ashen skin, and his eyes were bloodshot from the cold.
"What a day!" Balyn sighed again.
"Aye," Maelgwn answered grimly. "What a day indeed."
"What happened, Maelgwn? Why did you let that damned Irishman nearly send you back to your maker?"
Maelgwn flinched. "Something made Cynraith stumble and throw me."
"I don't mean that, Maelgwn, and you well know it! I mean afterwards, when you stood there stunned—like a callow boy freezing up in his first battle. It was as if you were afraid to kill the murderous heathen!"
Balyn's insulting remark penetrated Maelgwn's dazed state. He got to his feet, nearly upsetting the stool. "It was not the Irishman that frightened me, but what I saw in his face."
"What did you see?"
Maelgwn gripped the skin of mead more tightly. "I saw Rhiannon."
"What?"
"As I was about to cut the Irishman's throat... he... somehow he changed. I saw Rhiannon looking up at me, her eyes full of dread."
Balyn sucked in his breath and crossed himself. "Jesu, help you. You've seen a wraith, a demon!"
Maelgwn shook his head. "It was not a malevolent spirit. If anything, it appeared frightened of me."
Balyn clutched at Maelgwn's sleeve. "The spirit, this thing, it very nearly caused your death. You must go to the priest and ask for a prayer of protection, some charm to use against it."
"You forget yourself, Balyn. Christians don't believe in charms or spells."
"Mayhaps some holy water then, or a relic. There must be something that will ward off this demon!"
Maelgwn gave Balyn a hard look, then paced to the other side of the council room. He came back to face his friend. "I don't expect you to understand. I can't get the thought of Rhiannon out of my mind. It's as if she were trying to speak to me, to tell me something."
Balyn's mouth dropped open. "You're hoping it comes again, aren't you?"
Maelgwn froze. "You think it's possible—that I could seek her out?"
Balyn muttered a smothered curse, then grabbed Maelgwn by the arm. "Nay! It's mad! Sinful! To seek speech with the dead—it's, it's... you would be risking your soul!"
"My soul!" Maelgwn's face twisted bitterly. "I tell you, Balyn, if I thought it would bring me peace, I would willingly seek out the archdemon himself. It would be worth any price to banish this terrible guilt, this gnawing sense of loss!"
Balyn released Maelgwn's arm and took a step back, his eyes wide and fearful. "I must get Father Leichan. He'll know what to say. He'll know how to dissuade you from this blasphemy."
Maelgwn sat down wearily after Balyn left. His friend's wild words gave him an idea. Perhaps he could seek out Rhiannon's spirit. He would go back to the oak tree, where his sense of her was strongest. If he sought the vision hard enough, surely it would come again.
Maelgwn went back to his mead and mused over the plan, and Balyn soon reappeared with the young cleric. The priest's plain brown cowl was pulled up around his face, and his round black eyes met Maelgwn's uncertainly. Maelgwn felt a stir of pity for the priest. Father Leichan was pious and sincere, and intelligent enough to understand most subtleties of faith. But Maelgwn did not expect him to be comfortable with what they were about to discuss.
"My lord, Balyn says you have need of religious counsel."
Maelgwn smiled faintly at Balyn's quaint choice of words. He cast a glance in the stout man's direction, and Balyn gave him a look of near-dread. How typical Balyn was of a good soldier, Maelgwn thought. Loyal, disciplined and utterly fearless on the battlefield, but with a superstitious fear of the unknown which made him cling as staunchly to the new faith as he had once clung to the ways of the old gods. Balyn seemed unable to consider that there might be things that Christianity failed to explain.
"Tell me, Father, do you believe in ghosts?"
The priest looked startled. "Of course not. The Scriptures teach that when men's souls depart their bodies, they either ascend to heaven to be with our Lord or are taken below to suffer eternal damnation."
"There is no way, then, for a person's soul to linger in the earthly realm after death?"
Father Leichan shook his head resolutely. "Certainly not. That is an ignorant belief of the common people. Surely a well-educated Christian such as yourself should not be troubled by such superstitious fancies."
Maelgwn frowned at the young priest's rather credulous compliment. "Nevertheless, Father, I believe I have seen such a thing. A spirit—the spirit of my dead wife."
Father Leichan's brow furrowed. "Perhaps you were dreaming, my lord."
"Nay. I was wide awake. It was in the middle of a battle. I saw Rhiannon, Father, I saw her quite clearly."
The priest was silent. Maelgwn wondered what Father Leichan would say. He could not mimic Balyn and counsel the dangers of associating with spirits. He had just said they did not exist.
"Do you blame yourself for your wife's death?"
The priest's question surprised him. Maelgwn felt the guilt tightening like a noose around his neck. He answered in a low, shaky voice. "Whom else can I blame? I wounded her in my rage, then sent her away. It is my fault she was washed to sea."
Father Leichan nodded. "Your guilt still haunts you. You must ask God to forgive you and deliver you from these troubling visions." His soft voice grew softer, and he laid a consoling hand on Maelgwn's arm. "The Christ can forgive even murder if you are sincere, and you obviously did not intend for your wife to die."
"You don't believe me." Maelgwn's voice was cold. "You think I am half-mad with grief."
The priest did not answer; he moved his hand away.
"I saw her, Father. I can't help but think she seeks to communicate with me."
"Aye, I had forgotten," Maelgwn said bitterly. "Rhiannon was not a Christian, therefore, she is doomed to burn in the fires of hell. I don't believe it. Rhiannon was kind and good—no just god would curse her so cruelly!"
He glared at the priest a moment, then waved him away. "Go. Leave me be."
The priest left quickly. Maelgwn gave Balyn a threatening look. He, too, quit the room.
Maelgwn took his place by the fire again. The warmth eased his aching leg; the mead numbed his emotions. But his mind still spun. He recreated the vision of Rhiannon, savoring it. If she had come to him once, why not again? Tomorrow he would go out and search for her. Perhaps on the beach or in the forest by the oak tree, she would show herself. It would be only her spirit, but it was better than nothing. If he thought hard enough, believed strongly enough, surely he could will some part of Rhiannon into existence again.
He closed his eyes, resting them from the flickering firelight. A strange peace enveloped him. Rhiannon and he, they had both believed in the other side, the realm of the spirits. If he was willing to journey there, he would find her. Perhaps, somehow, he could even bring her back.
The two women bent over the pile of dried herbs, comparing their lore. "You know a great deal," Rhiannon said. "More even than Llewenon. Of course..." She frowned slightly at the memory. "When he was my teacher, I was too obsessed with learning magic to devote my energies to the healing arts."
She looked up. Arianhrodd met her eyes warmly, and Rhiannon felt no uneasiness. She had finally confessed a little of her past—that she had trained with a healer in the North. She said nothing about Llewenon's attack nor how she had come to Gwynedd, and Arianhrodd had not pressed her for more information. The risk had been worth it, Rhiannon decided, for now Arianhrodd was eager to teach her about the medicinal plants that filled her baskets. They had spent quite a bit of time comparing information about preparation and storage as well as uses.
It was exciting to learn from someone like Arianhrodd; unlike Llewenon, she took a sincere interest in using her skill to help others and had greatly increased her knowledge through practical experience. Now that Rhiannon's leg had healed and she could walk easily, she accompanied Arianhrodd when she visited the nearby villagers and offered them her healing skills. So far, they had attended a woman giving birth, set a boy's broken arm and opened a putrefied wound on a fisherman's foot. To Rhiannon's surprise, the local people accepted her presence easily. If they found anything odd about her unusual coloring and smooth, unblemished hands, they kept it to themselves.
"This is plantain—excellent for healing burns," Arianhrodd was saying. "I mean to put in a good store of it. The news is that the Irish are raiding again. Ceinwen told me that a village down the coast from here was attacked and burned yesterday. Most of the people escaped to the woods, although they lost their homes and nearly all of their possessions."
Rhiannon's eyes widened. In the North, raids by the Picts were a constant danger. She had not realized that the Cymry faced a similar threat from their neighbors across the sea.
Arianhrodd nodded knowingly. "The Irish have harassed the coasts of Gwynedd for time out of mind. It is only the strength and fierceness of our warriors which keeps them from establishing permanent settlements. Ceinwen told me the king himself led the attack against the raiders yesterday."
Rhiannon went still as a tumult of emotions fought inside her. The mention of Maelgwn aroused fear, curiosity and a deep, unwelcome longing. "Did the defenders prevail?" she asked woodenly.
"Aye. They killed ten Irish, captured several others and forced the rest to flee."
Rhiannon let out her pent-up breath. She was not sure which frightened her more—the thought that Maelgwn had been in a battle or the realization that he had been so close to her refuge with Arianhrodd and Ceinwen. She had been wrong to think she could stay with them beyond the time it took for her to heal and repay them with new clothes. Ceinwen's and Arianhrodd's hut was only a short distance from Degannwy, and the king's attention had already been drawn this way by the raid. It was only a matter of time before he heard of a small, red-haired woman newly come to the area.
Arianhrodd's dark eyes watched her, intent but not threatening. She leaned over to replace the plantain in a leather pouch, then returned it to the storage basket "Enough of this," Arianhrodd said briskly. "Why don't we take a walk in the woods and see if the coltsfoot has come up yet? It also makes a fine salve for easing burns, and my supply from last year is sadly depleted."
They replaced the rest of the herbs in the storage baskets, then went out. It was a mild day, overcast, with a slight mist in the air and a gentle wind. Rhiannon was silent as they walked toward the woods. Her thoughts and feelings were wrenched in so many competing directions she felt unsettled and confused. The woods called to her, reminding her of the wild forests of Manau Gotodin and her plan to return there as soon as her leg healed and the weather grew warm enough for traveling. But Arianhrodd's comforting presence beside her made Rhiannon realize how safe and protected she had come to feel in the little hut on the coast. The plump, dark woman was like the mother she had never had. For all that Esylt had loved her and cared for her, there had been no true bond of understanding between them. With Arianhrodd, Rhiannon felt a connectedness and sense of peace she had never known with anyone else.
And then there was Maelgwn. She had tried to forget him, to remove the memory of him from her thoughts, or bury it beneath her fear and anger over what he had done to her. But she had been even less successful in forgetting him than she had once been in escaping thoughts of Llewenon. Perhaps it was because Maelgwn was king, and his name was on the lips of even the simple folk. Maelgwn was Gwynedd, and Gwynedd was he. As long as she lived in this place, she would be haunted by her husband's shadow over her life. He would never leave her in peace.
Rhiannon wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold. Arianhrodd saw and quietly offered Rhiannon the fur wrap she was wearing. Rhiannon shook her head; there was no garment that could ease the chill she felt. It came from inside her, from her heart.
Chapter 25
Maelgwn shifted impatiently as he waited for the next petitioner. Tonight was Candlemas, or Imbolc, as the herdsmen referred to it. Tradition required the local ruler to grant favors and hear disputes before the festival. Although it was an ancient and reasonable custom, this particular day, Maelgwn begrudged his part. Every minute spent in the smoky hall delayed his plan to seek out Rhiannon's spirit.
He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to soothe away the tension. It was nearly impossible to recall the numbing mass of traditions governing Cymry society. Without his bards, Taliesin and Aneurin, beside him, he would have been lost. There was a law for everything—even the payment that must be made for the killing of a man's barn cat.
Maelgwn's ill-temper eased slightly at the memory of the incident. Early in the day, an indignant farmer had come before him, demanding compensation for the loss of his best mouser. Taliesin had listened gravely and pronounced the verdict: the dead cat was to be picked up by the tip of its tail so that its nose touched the ground and grain poured over it until the cat's whole body was covered. That amount must be paid to the farmer by the man who had killed the cat.
Maelgwn's smile faded, chased away by fatigue and boredom. He glanced at Aneurin and Taliesin—they looked as restless as he. "Go," he said. "I'm sure I can deal with anything left."
They nodded gratefully and lost no time in quitting the hall. For a few minutes Maelgwn was alone; only the sound of the crackling fire broke the silence. He stood and stretched, relieved to think the stream of petitioners had come to an end. A lone man entered the wide doorway and walked toward him. Maelgwn's irritation returned. What did this one want of
him?
The man was small and dark and dressed in poorly tanned leathers and a ratty wolfskin. A bow protruded over his shoulder, suggesting he was one of the rugged men who eked out a sparse living hunting and trapping in the woods. Maelgwn watched him with vague interest. The native huntsmen were superb archers. He often thought that if he could recruit them to his army, his need for warriors would be greatly reduced.
The man knelt before him. Maelgwn gestured curdy for him to rise. "Speak. What matter do you bring before me?"
The man licked his lips, and Maelgwn caught a glimpse of brown, broken teeth. "I come to you with news of your wife."
Maelgwn jerked back in astonishment. "My wife?"
The man nodded. "I know that the queen is said to be dead—drowned many weeks ago—but I have seen her alive."
Maelgwn gaped at the man, then cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice calm. "What do you mean?"
"I saw your wife in the forest, at a ceremony honoring the Goddess, the Great Mother. She was one of the worshippers. She had long red hair, unbound, and she was very beautiful. I have seen her before, once when you were with her in the woods."
The memory of making love to Rhiannon beneath the great oak tree rose unbidden to Maelgwn's mind, filling him with longing—and then anger.
"You spied on us?"
"I didn't mean to bother you, my lord," the man said hastily. "I left as soon as I saw who it was. But I had a good glimpse of the woman. She was lying next to you, her head resting on your chest. It was the same woman I saw at the ceremony." His gaze met Maelgwn's, imploring, fearful. "I swear, my lord, I swear upon the lives of my wife and child. It had to be your queen. There is no other woman like that among the Cymry."
Maelgwn's mind raced. Rhiannon could not be alive; there had to be some other explanation. Perhaps there was a village girl who resembled her. Or maybe the man had simply made up the story and come seeking a reward.
Maelgwn fixed his eyes coldly on the huntsman. "What did you expect to gain with this story?"
Dragon's Dream Page 26
