The procession passed through the castle gates and into a wide courtyard. Shouting a glad “Hullo, hullo!” Prince Rhun hurried to his waiting parents. King Rhuddlum had the same round and cheerful face as Prince Rhun. He greeted the companions cordially, repeating himself a number of times. If he was aware of Taran’s torn cloak, he showed no sign, which only added to Taran’s distress. When King Rhuddlum at last finished talking, Queen Teleria stepped forward.
The Queen was a stout, pleasant-looking woman dressed in fluttering white garments; a golden circlet crowned her braided hair, which was the same straw color as Prince Rhun’s. She showered Eilonwy with kisses, embraced the still embarrassed Taran, halted in amazement when she came to Gurgi, but embraced him nevertheless.
“Welcome, Daughter of Angharad,” Queen Teleria began, returning to Eilonwy. “Your presence honors—don’t fidget, child, and stand straight—our Royal House.” The Queen stopped suddenly and took Eilonwy by the shoulders. “Good Llyr!” she cried. “Where did you get those frightful clothes? Yes, I can see it’s high time Dallben let you out of that hole-and-corner in the middle of the woods.”
“Hole-and-corner indeed!” Eilonwy cried. “I love Caer Dallben. And Dallben is a great enchanter.”
“Exactly,” said Queen Teleria. “He’s so busy casting spells and all such that he’s let you grow like a weed!” She turned to King Rhuddlum. “Wouldn’t you say so, my dear?”
“Very much like a weed,” agreed the King, eyeing Kaw with interest.
The crow hunched up his wings, opened his beak, and loudly croaked “Rhuddlum!” to the King’s immense delight.
Queen Teleria, meanwhile, had been examining Taran and Gurgi by turns. “Look at that disgracefully torn cloak! You must both have new raiment,” she declared. “New jackets, new sandals, everything. Luckily we have a perfectly wonderful shoemaker at the castle now. He was just—don’t pout that way, my child, you’ll give yourself a blister—passing through. But we’ve kept him busy and he’s still cobbling away. Our Chief Steward shall see to it. Magg?” she called. “Magg? Where is he?”
“At your command,” answered the Chief Steward, who had been standing all the while by Queen Teleria’s elbow. He wore one of the finest cloaks Taran had ever seen, its rich embroidery almost surpassing King Rhuddlum’s garment. Magg carried a long staff of polished wood taller than himself, from his neck hung a chain of heavy silver links, and at his belt was a huge iron ring from which jingled keys of all sizes.
“All has been ordered,” said Magg, bowing deeply. “Your decision has been foreseen. The shoemaker, the tailors, and the weavers stand ready.”
“Excellent!” Queen Teleria cried. “Now, the Princess and I shall go first to the weaving rooms. And Magg shall show the rest of you to your chambers.”
Magg bowed again, even more deeply, and beckoned with his staff. With Gurgi at his heels, Taran followed the Chief Steward through the courtyard, into a high stone building and down a vaulted corridor. At the end of it, Magg gestured toward an open portal and silently withdrew.
Taran stepped inside. The chamber was small, but neat and airy, bright with sunlight from a narrow casement. Fragrant rushes covered the floor and in one corner stood a low couch and pallet of straw. Taran had no sooner taken off his cloak when the portal suddenly burst open and a spiky, yellow head thrust in.
“Fflewddur Fflam!” Taran shouted with joyful surprise at the sight of this long-absent companion. “Well met!”
The bard seized Taran by the hand and began pumping it with all his might, at the same time clapping him resoundingly on the shoulder. Kaw flapped his wings while Gurgi leaped into the air, yelped at the top of his voice, and embraced Fflewddur in a shower of twigs, leaves, and shedding hair.
“Well, well, well!” said the bard. “And high time it is! I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you’d never get here.”
“How did you come?” cried Taran, who had just begun to catch his breath. “How did you know we were to be at Dinas Rhydnant?”
“Why, I couldn’t help knowing,” the bard replied, beaming with delight. “There’s been talk of nothing but the Princess Eilonwy. Where is she, by the way? I must find her and pay my respects at once. I was hoping Dallben would send you along with her. How is he? How is Coll? I see you’ve brought Kaw. Great Belin, I’ve seen none of you for so long I’ve lost track!”
“But Fflewddur,” Taran interrupted, “what brings you to Mona, of all places?”
“Well, it’s a short tale,” said the bard. “I had decided, this time, really to make a go of being a king. And so I did, for the best part of a year. Then along came spring and the barding and wandering season, and everything indoors began looking unspeakably dreary, and everything outdoors began somehow pulling at me, and next thing I knew I was on my way. I’d never been to Mona, so that was the best reason in the world for going. I reached Dinas Rhydnant a week ago. The vessel had already left to meet you or you can be sure I’d have been on it.”
“And you can be sure you’d have borne us better company than the Princeling of Mona,” Taran said. “We were lucky that noble fool didn’t somehow manage to blunder onto a reef and sink us in the tide. But what of Doli?” he went on. “I have longed to see him as much as I have longed to see you.”
“Good old Doli.” The bard chuckled, shaking his yellow head. “I tried to rouse him when I first set out. But he’s hidden himself away with his kinsmen in the realm of the Fair Folk.” Fflewddur sighed. “I fear our good dwarf has lost his taste for adventure. I managed to get word to him, thinking he might come along with me for the sport of it. He sent back a message. All it said was ‘Humph!’”
“You should have come to meet us at the harbor,” Taran said. “It would have cheered me to know you were here.”
“Ah—yes, I was going to,” replied Fflewddur, with some hesitation, “but I thought I’d wait and surprise you. I was busy, too, getting ready a song about the arrival of the Princess. Quite an impressive chant, if I do say so myself. We’re all mentioned in it, with plenty of heroic deeds.”
“And Gurgi, too?” cried Gurgi.
“Of course,” said the bard. “I shall sing it for all of you this evening.”
Gurgi shouted and clapped his hands. “Gurgi cannot wait to hear hummings and strummings!”
“You shall hear them, old friend,” the bard assured him, “all in due course. But you can imagine I could hardly spare the time to join the welcoming procession …”
At this a harp string broke suddenly.
Fflewddur unslung his beloved instrument and looked at it ruefully. “There it goes again,” he sighed. “These beastly strings will never leave off snapping whenever I—ah—add a little to the truth. And in this case, the truth of the matter is: I wasn’t invited.”
“But a bard of the harp is honored at every court in Prydain,” Taran said. “How could they overlook—”
Fflewddur raised a hand. “True, true,” he said. “I was certainly honored here, and handsomely, too. That was before they learned I wasn’t a real bard. Afterward,” he admitted, “I was moved into the stables.”
“You should have told them you are a king,” said Taran.
“No, no,” said Fflewddur, shaking his head. “When I’m a bard, I’m a bard; and when I’m a king, that’s something else again. I never mix the two.
“King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria are decent sorts,” Fflewddur continued. “The Chief Steward was the one who had me turned out.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t some mistake?” Taran asked. “From what I’ve seen of him, he seems to do his duties perfectly.”
“All too well, if you ask me,” said Fflewddur. “Somehow he found out about my qualifications, and next thing I knew—into the stables! The truth of it is I think he hates music. Surprising how many people I’ve run into who for some reason or other simply can’t abide harp-playing.”
Taran heard a loud rapping at the portal. It was Magg himself, come with the shoe
maker, who stood humbly behind him.
“Not that he troubles me,” Fflewddur whispered. “That is,” he added, looking at the harp, “not beyond what I can honorably bear.” He slung the instrument over his shoulder. “Yes, well, as I was saying, I must go and find Princess Eilonwy. We shall meet later. In the stables, if you don’t mind. And I shall play my new song.” Glaring at Magg, Fflewddur strode from the chamber.
The Chief Steward, taking no notice of the bard’s angry glance, bowed to Taran. “As Queen Teleria commanded, you and your companion are to be given new apparel. The shoemaker will serve you as you wish.”
Taran sat down on a wooden stool and, as Magg departed from the chamber, the shoemaker drew near. The man was bent with age and garbed most shabbily. A grimy cloth was wrapped around his head and a fringe of gray hair fell almost to his shoulders. At his broad belt hung curiously shaped knives, awls, and hanks of thongs. Kneeling before Taran, he opened a great sack and thrust in his hand to pull out strips of leather, which he placed about him on the floor. He squinted at his findings, holding up one after the other, then casting it aside.
“We must use the best, the best,” he croaked, in a voice much like Kaw’s. “Only that will do. To go well-shod is half the journey.” He chuckled. “Is that not so, eh? Is that not so, Taran of Caer Dallben?”
Taran drew back with a start. The shoemaker’s tone had suddenly rung differently. He stared down at the aged man who had picked up a piece of leather and was now shaping it deftly with a crooked little knife. The shoemaker, his face as tanned as his own materials, was watching him steadily.
Gurgi looked ready to yelp loudly. The man raised a finger to his lips.
Taran, in confusion, hurriedly knelt before the shoemaker. “Lord Gwydion …”
Gwydion’s eyes flashed with pleasure, but his smile was grim. “Hear me well,” he said quickly, in a hushed voice. “Should we be interrupted, I shall find a way to speak with you later. Tell no one who I am. What you must know, above all, is this: the life of the Princess Eilonwy is in danger. And so,” he added, “is your own.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Shoemaker
Taran paled. His head still whirled at seeing the Prince of Don in the guise of a shoemaker, and Gwydion’s words left him all the more confused. “Our lives in danger?” he asked hurriedly. “Does Arawn of Annuvin seek us as far as Dinas Rhydnant?”
Gwydion motioned for Gurgi to stand guard at the portal and turned once more to Taran. “No,” said Gwydion, with a quick shake of his head. “Though Arawn’s wrath has grown to fury since the Black Cauldron was destroyed, the threat comes not from Annuvin.”
Taran frowned. “Who then? There is none in Dinas Rhydnant who wishes us ill. You cannot mean that King Rhuddlum or Queen Teleria …”
“The House of Rhuddlum has always borne friendship to the Sons of Don and to our High King Math,” replied Gwydion. “Look elsewhere, Taran of Caer Dallben.”
“But who would harm Eilonwy?” Taran asked urgently. “It is known she is under Dallben’s protection.”
“There is one who would dare to stand against Dallben,” Gwydion said. “One against whom my own powers may not suffice and whom I fear as much as Arawn himself.” Gwydion’s face was taut and his green eyes flickered with deep anger as he spoke one harsh word: “Achren.”
Taran’s heart chilled. “No,” he whispered. “No. That evil enchantress is dead.”
“So I, too, believed,” Gwydion answered. “It is not true. Achren lives.”
“She has not rebuilt Spiral Castle!” Taran cried, his thoughts flashing to the dungeon where Achren had held him prisoner.
“Spiral Castle still lies in ruins, as you left it,” Gwydion said, “and grass already covers it. Oeth-Anoeth, where Achren would have given me to death, no longer stands. I have journeyed to those places and seen with my own eyes.
“You must know that I have long pondered her fate,” Gwydion went on. “Of Achren there has not been the slightest sign, as though the earth had swallowed her. This troubled me and lay heavily on my heart, and I have never given up seeking traces of her.
“At last I found these traces,” said Gwydion. “They were faint as words whispered in the wind, puzzling rumors that seemed at first no more than imaginings. A senseless riddle without an answer. Perhaps,” Gwydion continued, “I should say an answer without a riddle. And it was only after long toil and hard journeying that I discovered part of that riddle. Alas, only a part.”
Gwydion’s voice lowered. As he spoke, his hands did not cease carving and shaping the unfinished sandal. “What I have learned is this. After Spiral Castle fell, Achren vanished. At first I believed she had sought refuge in the realm of Annuvin, for she had lived long as a consort of Arawn. Indeed, it was Achren who gave Arawn his power in the days when she herself ruled Prydain.
“But she did not go to Annuvin. Since she had let the sword Dyrnwyn slip from her hands, and failed to take my life, it may be that she feared Arawn’s wrath. Perhaps she dared not face him, having been outwitted by a young girl and an Assistant Pig-Keeper. Of this, I am not certain. Nevertheless, she fled Prydain. Since then, no man knows what has befallen her. Yet even to know she is alive is cause enough for fear.”
“Do you think she is on Mona?” Taran asked. “Does she seek vengeance on us? But Eilonwy was no more than a child when she escaped from Achren; she understood nothing of what she did.”
“Wittingly or not, by taking Dyrnwyn from Spiral Castle, Eilonwy gave Achren her most grievous defeat,” Gwydion said. “Achren does not forget or forgive.” He knit his brows. “It is my fear that she seeks Eilonwy. Not only for revenge. I sense there is something other than that. It is hidden from me now, yet I must discover it without delay. More than Eilonwy’s life may hang in the balance.”
“If only Dallben had let her stay with us,” Taran said in dismay. “He, too, must have known Achren was alive. Did he not realize Eilonwy would be in danger the moment she was beyond his protection?”
“Dallben’s ways are deep,” said Gwydion, “and not always given to me to fathom. He knows much, but he foresenses more than he chooses to tell.” Gwydion, putting down his awl, drew out a leather thong and began stitching it through the sandal. “Dallben sent me word that the Princess Eilonwy would voyage to Mona, and counseled me to turn my attention here. He told me, too, of certain other matters. But it is better not to speak of them now.”
“I cannot sit idle while Eilonwy may be in peril,” Taran insisted. “Is there no way I can serve you?”
“You shall serve me best by keeping silent,” Gwydion answered. “Stay watchful. Say nothing of me or of what we have spoken, not to the Princess Eilonwy, not even to Fflewddur.” He smiled. “Our eager bard saw me in the stables and luckily did not know me. Meantime, I shall …”
Before the Prince of Don could finish, Gurgi began waving his arms in warning. Footsteps rang in the corridor and Gwydion bent quickly to the task of fitting the sandals.
“Hullo, hullo!” cried Prince Rhun, striding into the chamber. “Ah, shoemaker, there you are. Have you done with your work? I say, they are handsome, aren’t they?” he said, glancing at the sandals. “Amazingly well-made. I should like a pair myself. Oh—my mother asks to see you in the Great Hall,” he added, turning to Taran.
Gwydion’s face had fallen suddenly into lines and wrinkles; his shoulders were hunched and his voice shook with age. Without a further glance at Taran, Gwydion beckoned to Rhun. “Come with me, young Prince,” he said. “You shall have sandals befitting your station.”
As Kaw fluttered after him, Taran hurried from the chamber and down the corridor. Gurgi, round-eyed with fright, trotted beside him.
“Oh, fearsome danger!” Gurgi moaned. “Gurgi is sorry great enchanter sends us to place of peril. Gurgi wants to hide his poor tender head under kindly straw at Caer Dallben.”
Taran warned him to silence. “Eilonwy is surely in more danger than we are,” he whispered, hastening tow
ard the Great Hall. “I don’t like the thought of Achren turning up again any more than you do. But Gwydion is here to protect Eilonwy, and so are we.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Gurgi. “Brave, loyal Gurgi will guard goldenhaired Princess, too, oh yes; and she will be safe with him. But,” he snuffled, “he still longs to be in Caer Dallben.”
“Take heart, my friend,” Taran said. He smiled and put a hand on Gurgi’s trembling shoulder. “We companions shall see no ill befalls any of us. But remember—not a word that Gwydion is here. He has his own plans and we must do nothing to betray them.”
“Gurgi will be silent!” Gurgi cried, clapping his hands to his mouth. “Oh, yes! But mind,” he added, shaking a finger at Kaw, “that gossipy black bird does not tell with talkings and squawkings!”
“Silence!” Kaw croaked, bobbing his head. “Secrets!”
In the high-ceilinged Great Hall, with its flagstones that seemed to cover a space as large as the orchard at Caer Dallben, Taran caught sight of Eilonwy amid a group of court ladies. Some, of Eilonwy’s age, were listening delightedly to the Princess; the rest, all of whom looked much like Queen Teleria, were frowning or whispering behind their hands. Magg, standing near the Queen’s throne, watched impassively.
“ … and there we stood,” Eilonwy was saying, her eyes flashing, “back to back, sword in hand! The Huntsmen of Annuvin burst from the forest! They were upon us in a moment!”
The young girls of the court gasped with excitement, while some of the older women gave horrified cluckings that reminded Taran of nothing so much as Coll’s chicken run. Taran saw that Eilonwy wore a new cloak; her hair had been combed and dressed in a different fashion; among the ladies, she shone like a bird of golden plumage; and, with a curious twinge of heart, Taran realized that had it not been for her chattering he might not have known her.
“Good Llyr!” cried Queen Teleria, who had leaped from her throne as Eilonwy continued the tale of battle. “I’m beginning to think you haven’t had a—my dear child, don’t be so gleeful when you talk about hacking at people with swords—safe moment in your life.” She blinked, shook her head, and fanned herself with a kerchief. “What relief that Dallben has finally decided to be sensible and send you to us. If nothing else, you’ll be out of harm’s way.”
The Castle of Llyr Page 2
