But there was cruelty as well as kindness. One night Rhiannon watched, puzzled, as Bronwyn deliberately plied both her father and Pwyll with goblet after goblet of wine until Pwyll slid unconscious beneath the high board. Bronwyn then led the drunken Cynbel to that secluded place in the hall where Rhiannon now made her home and encouraged her inebriated parent, who had secretly lusted after Rhiannon since his first sight of her, to forcibly violate Pwyll's beautiful wife. Cynbel would not remember his bestial act come the dawn, but Bronwyn, her own hand silencing Rhiannon's cries for help, knew this final act of treachery would assure her her victory over Rhiannon.
In her pain the mauve mists swirled about her once again.
Rhi-an-non!
How long had she sat here before Pwyll's gates, the heavy collar pressing its brutal weight upon her delicate frame? Four summers had passed since the birth and mysterious disappearance of her infant son. Four long summers when the dust from the road had almost choked her each time a party of merchants or other travelers passed by. Three long, cold winters when the icy rains, and finally the snows, had put chilblains upon her delicate hands and feet that would not heal completely until the warm weather had returned. She still wore the same gown she had worn from the first day, but it was now ragged beyond repair, and its soft lavender color had long ago faded to a dingy, pale ash-grey. Without the cloak she had been given, she would have never survived the winters, but she could not wear the wool garment throughout the summer, and wondered how she could obtain a new gown to cover her painfully thin form.
They had not broken her brave spirit, however. The common people had continued to be kind, and but for occasional cruelties from Bronwyn, the court ignored her entirely. As the featherbed had appeared so magically one day, and the food each morning and evening, so also did Rhiannon's silver hairbrush come into her possession after a time. She kept it with her wherever she went. Once each day she would sit before the gates of the castle, unbind her long golden hair and slowly brush it until it came alive with light. The Cymri people would come to watch her, enjoying the simple entertainment she offered. Seeing Rhiannon one day as she slowly stroked her golden hair with her silver brush, Bronwyn was enraged.
"Take the brush away from her!" she screamed at her father. "The bitch but draws attention to herself in an effort to gain the peasant's sympathy! Next, Pwyll will learn of it and take her back! All my work of the last few years will be for nought!"
"That, my dear Bronwyn, is your problem, not mine," Cynbel of Teifi told his furious daughter coldly. "If you cannot win Pwyll over, it is not my fault. He loves the woman of the Fair Folk yet, though not enough to overcome a suspicion of her which I have so carefully instilled in him. Be patient, and you will be Pwyll's wife, I promise you. Take Rhiannon's brush from her, and you will cause a spectacle. The peasants will turn against Pwyll, and against you. Be warned, my daughter! If Rhiannon's hairbrush should disappear, I will personally replace it."
They argued in the Great Hall and, though she could not overhear their words, Rhiannon saw the discord between them, and she was glad of this division among her enemies. As the shock of the injustice visited upon her had worn off, Rhiannon realized that though she would never return to Pwyll, neither could she allow Bronwyn to become his wife. Bronwyn was not fit to be poor Pwyll's wife. Besides, wherever Anwyl was, it was he who was the true heir to Dyfed.
The autumn came once more, and one afternoon as she sat upon the horse block before the castle gates, she saw three figures upon horseback coming toward her. As they drew nearer Rhiannon could see a man, a woman, and a small boy. She arose slowly and began her now familiar litany in a dull monotone. It was the only way she could manage to say the awful words without shrieking her frustration.
"As I murdered my child, I am condemned to remain here for a term of seven years. Should you wish to enter the court of Pwyll of Dyfed, it is my duty to bear you upon my back into the prince's hall. This is my punishment."
The man, who was obviously a wealthy lord, as the gold torque about his neck indicated, said quietly, "Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, I greet you. I am Teirnyon, lord of Gwent. This lady is my wife, Elaine, and the child is called Cant. We will take no part in a shameful injustice visited upon an innocent woman." The lord of Gwent was a tall man with a kind face. He reached out and carefully lifted the heavy horse collar from Rhiannon's slender shoulders. "Come with us into your husband's hall, princess."
"My lord, I am forbidden to leave my place until after the sun has set," Rhiannon said softly. The lord of Gwent's kindness was almost more than she could bear. It had been months since anyone had spoken to her, let alone spoken to her with kindness.
"You will never sit before these gates again, princess," Teirnyon told her firmly. "We are here to right the wrong done you four years ago by those who have only their own interests and not Dyfed's in their evil hearts. Only trust us and come." Then taking her hand, he led her into Pwyll's hall. Behind him Elaine and Cant followed.
It was the dinner hour. There were gasps of surprise and many a shocked face as the quartet entered the Great Hall of Dyfed and made their way to stand before Pwyll. Because of his great size, however, none attempted to stop the lord of Gwent or his little group, the crowd giving way before him as he strode through the hall, directly up to the high board.
"How dare you escort this felon into the center of the prince's hall?" demanded Bronwyn of the White Breast boldly from her place next to Pwyll on the prince's bench. "Has she not told you how she murdered her own newborn son? She is a witch of the Fair Folk, though her power has been rendered useless before honest folk as ourselves. Where is her collar? Whoever you are, you will answer for this outrage!"
The look Teirnyon cast in Bronwyn's direction was scathing in both its content and its brevity. "Greetings, Pwyll of Dyfed," Teirnyon began, addressing the prince directly and ignoring Bronwyn. "I am Teirnyon, the lord of Gwent, and this is my lady wife, Elaine of Powys."
Pwyll sighed deeply, but he focused his sad eyes upon his visitor. Gracious hospitality was the first law among the Cymri peoples. "You are welcome to my castle, Teirnyon of Gwent, and your family also," Pwyll responded. He deliberately ignored Rhiannon. Seeing her now was far too hard for him. She was so painfully thin, and yet her beauty seemed to glow as brightly as it ever had.
"Hear me, prince of Dyfed, for I have come to right a terrible wrong done your family. You have allowed your faithful wife, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, to be unjustly condemned. Such behavior is unworthy of the prince of Dyfed."
Pwyll looked startled by this rebuke and more alert than he had in the past several years. "Can you prove my wife's innocence, my lord?" he asked Teirnyon hesitantly. "If you can, you will do what no other, even she, has been able to do."
Teirnyon nodded slowly and began his tale. "Several months ago there came to my court at Gwent, Taran of the Hundred Battles, and his companion, Evan ap Rhys. Although we had heard some murmurings of your misfortune, we had never heard the full tale which they told us the first night they were with us. They had gone from Dyfed with your wife's blessing to her own people. There they had learned that one of the lady Rhiannon's former suitors had, in his bitterness over losing her, sought his revenge against her, aided by one of your own people. Who this Cymri was, however, they could not learn, for the rejected suitor refused to tell them. He has been punished though by the high council of all the Fair Folk and will harm no one ever again," the lord of Gwent reassured his listeners, and then he continued.
"Taran of the Hundred Battles and his friend, Evan ap Rhys, had believed in the lady Rhiannon's innocence in the matter of your son's disappearance. On the morning after you allowed her to be so unfairly condemned, they spoke with the women who had been charged with watching over your wife and child. They learned that wine had been brought to the women by Bronwyn of the White Breast, and all but one drank it, only to fall promptly into a deep sleep. The single lady who remained faithful in her duty dozed lightly in the middle
of the night, to be awakened by the sound of the casement being forced open. Terrified, she watched as a great clawed hand reached into the room and lifted your son from his cradle. The poor woman fainted, and when she regained her senses, the boy was gone. It was then the others awoke, saw the baby was missing, and fearing punishment for their dereliction of duty, attempted to make it appear that your gentle wife had murdered the child. That one woman who knew the truth was fearful of speaking out. She was new to your court and saw the others' animosity toward Rhiannon of the Fair Folk. She was afraid that no one would believe her tale, and thus allowed your poor wife to be accused unjustly. When Taran spoke with her and they learned they were related by blood, the lady admitted to what she had seen."
Pwyll's eyes widened in surprise at Teirnyon's words. "I have not heard this tale before," he said, but there was confusion in his voice. "Why have I not heard this tale?"
"Because it is undoubtedly a false tale!" snapped Bronwyn angrily, disregarding her father's warning look.
Teirnyon once again ignored the shrewish woman and said to Pwyll, "How many words have you spoken to your wife since you allowed her to be condemned, oh prince of Dyfed? She knew her babe was stolen away, but you, I am told, influenced by the prejudice of others, cut yourself off from her immediately. You did not grieve with her, or comfort her, or defend her innocence in any way."
A deep flush of shame stained Pwyll's face at the lord of Gwent's sharp words. "Ahhh, Rhiannon!" he said, speaking her name aloud for the first time in four years.
Rhiannon raised her violet eyes to him, piercing him with a look of such aching sadness that the prince cried out aloud as if in pain; but she spoke no word to him.
Teirnyon picked up his tale once more. "I knew of this creature that Taran and Evan sought, but I did not know what it was or where to find it. You see, my lord, I have a particularly fine mare among my herds that I love right well. For many years she foaled regularly, but there was a period of several years in which her newborn foals always disappeared under mysterious circumstances almost immediately after their births. Four years ago I determined that I should not lose the colt that my mare was about to drop, and so when she went into her labor, I brought her into my castle at Gwent for safety's sake.
"The foal was born and he was a beautiful one. As I stood admiring it, the windows in the room flew open and a huge clawed hand reached through and sought to take the newborn colt from its mother. I took my broadsword and hacked at that damned arm with its greedy, clawed hand! From outside, a terrible howl like a rushing, mighty wind arose. I dashed out into the darkened courtyard to do battle with whatever it was that was stealing my horses. I could see nothing in all the blackness, for there was no moon that night. Then suddenly I felt something being dropped at my feet and all was silent.
"I reached down and lifted the bundle up. Imagine my surprise when I found that the swaddling contained a healthy, newborn infant boy. I brought the child to my dear wife, Elaine, who is childless. We decided to call him Cant, meaning bright, for the hair on his head was shining and golden. We did not question our good fortune in obtaining a son to love and raise after all our years of childlessness. We even considered the possibility the creature left us the infant in exchange for the colt. We had absolutely no idea where the baby came from until Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys arrived in Gwent some weeks ago with their tragic tale of Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, and Pwyll of Dyfed and the baby lost to them."
Teirnyon then looked down at the small boy by his side. "Show the lady Rhiannon the cloth you came wrapped in, Cant."
All eyes turned to the sturdy child with the hair of golden hue as he stepped forward and handed Rhiannon a length of green and silver brocade. Her tear-filled eyes devoured him eagerly, and the boy looked back at her with identical eyes. Her hands shaking, she took the fabric, though she did not really need to examine it. She had recognized it immediately. It was her own fine work, created upon her high loom during the months in which she carried her child. Her infant son had been wrapped in it the night he had been born. The night he had been stolen away from her.
Rhiannon fell slowly to her knees, sobbing. "I called you Anwyl," she said. "Anwyl, my beloved son!" And Rhiannon hugged the little boy who slipped so easily into her embrace and kissed her lovingly upon her wet cheeks.
Teirnyon bent and took the fallen brocade up once more. Handing it to Pwyll, he asked, "Do you recognize it, my lord? Is this indeed the cloth in which your son was wrapped on the night he disappeared?"
Pwyll took the cloth, fingering it with wonder. He nodded mutely, unable to believe his sudden good fortune. By some marvelous miracle his only son and heir had just been restored to him. "How can I thank you?" he asked the lord of Gwent thickly, his voice sticking in his throat.
"You cannot," Teirnyon told him bluntly. "By returning your son to you, I lose mine and I break my dear wife's heart. She has loved Cant and raised him with tenderness since the night he came to us. How can I compensate her for such a loss? There is no way, my lord. Elaine and I, however, learning the truth of our son's birth and seeing the stamp of both Dyfed and the Fair Folk upon his brow, could not in honor keep him from you, nor allow his sweet mother's name to be further besmirched."
"I indeed owe you a great debt of gratitude, Teirnyon, and my friends Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys as well. Where are they?"
"We are here, my lord," came Taran's voice as he and Evan stepped forward from among the clustering crowd of courtiers.
"Whatever you want," Pwyll told them. "It is yours for what you have done for me and for Dyfed!"
"We did not do it for you, or for Dyfed, my lord," Evan ap Rhys said harshly. "We did it for the lady Rhiannon whom we love and honor."
Rhiannon now stood, lifting her son up into her arms as she did so. Seeing them together thusly left no doubt among those in the hall that they were mother and son. "Thank you, my friends," she told them quietly, and then she said, "Will you go with my son back to Gwent, Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys? Will you teach him of his heritage and guard him until he comes of his manhood?"
"We will, lady, and right gladly," the two warriors chorused in unison.
Rhiannon then looked to Teirnyon and Elaine. "There is no need for you to lose your son, our son, Anwyl whom you call Cant. It is the custom among the Cymri, is it not, to foster out a prince's children? It is also a mother's right among the Cymri to choose the place for her child's fostering. My son now knows the truth of his birth. Taran and Evan will teach him all he needs to know of Dyfed. I return him to Gwent with you both until he is a man. You, Teirnyon, teach my son all he needs to know about ruling that he may one day rule in Dyfed with honor, having learned honor from an honorable man." Her meaning was brutally clear.
Both Teirnyon and Elaine were overjoyed, but they were curious as well. The lady of Gwent spoke softly to Rhiannon. "Having found your son, you would let him go again, oh princess?"
Rhiannon nodded. "Anwyl has never known any other parents but you two. I want my child to be happy, and I tell you that having lived six years among the suspicion and intolerance of this court, I know for certain that Anywl's happiness, and indeed his very safety, are not to be found here in Dyfed. Here I will have no control over my son's fate. They would take him from me and seek to erase from his memory that half-heritage which comes to him through me. You surely knew by the very look of him that he was not entirely of the Cymri race, and yet you have both loved him without reservation."
It was then the child spoke. His little voice was high and piping. "I have but only found you, my other mother. I do not wish to lose you again."
"You will not lose me, Anwyl, my fair son. I will come to see you often in Gwent. Perhaps your father will come too one day."
"Then I will return to Gwent as you wish," the little boy said sweetly, and kissed her cheek again.
Outside Pwyll's castle thunder rumbled with an approaching storm. Lightning flashed beyond
the windows of the Great Hall.
Pwyll arose from his place at the high board and looked directly at Rhiannon. "Rhiannon," he said, "will you return to me?"
Before she might answer, however, Bronwyn of the White Breast leapt to her feet as if she had been stung. Grasping at Pwyll's arm with talonlike fingers, she cried out, "No! You cannot do this to me, my lord! Send her away! She has only caused you misery, this woman of the Fair Folk. How can you really be certain that this boy is your son? This is some sort of enchantment of the Fair Folk against us! Surely you must see that!"
Pwyll shook Bronwyn's hand off. "Leave me be!" he told her angrily. "Your shrewish babbling confuses me."
"Leave you be?" she shrieked, her face pinched in her anger. "Leave you be? What is this you say to me, Pwyll? What of last night? What of the many nights before that when we lay together, two lovers? What of the promise you made to me this very day that you would at last divorce this creature and put her aside that you might finally wed with me? Dyfed needs an heir! A legitimate Cymri heir!" Bronwyn was flushed and almost ugly in her fury at being thwarted.
For a brief moment the old Pwyll reappeared from the shell of the man that now existed. "Dyfed has an heir, lady," he said strongly. "He is before us now!" His hand shot out and, grasping Bronwyn of the White Breast by her thick brown braids, he forcibly directed her head in the direction of Rhiannon and the child she still held within the shelter of her arms. "Look upon my son, Bronwyn! He may have his mother's fair coloring, but his face is mine. His face is Dyfed's! I have no doubts!" Pwyll's gaze swung toward his council and his court. "Are there any among you who have doubts as to the paternity of this boy?" he demanded fiercely.
"What of you, Cynbel?" Pwyll growled threateningly.
A Moment in Time Page 24
