by Holly Taylor
“Owein,” Elphin cried out between bouts of laughter, “Help me!”
At his call Elphin’s younger brother, Owein, a lad of seventeen years, launched himself into the fray, landing on his father’s back and knocking him to one side. Owein had reddish brown hair and his mother’s deep blue eyes. His leap was accomplished in swift, competent silence, the strength in his leap belaying his slender build.
Urien roared as Owein pinned him to the floor and Elphin, now released, sprang up to continue the match. “Two against one, eh?” Urien cried.
“I’ll help you, Da,” fifteen-year-old Rhiwallon called out and the match was on. Elphin and Owein fought against Urien and Rhiwallon. The fight was over in the blink of an eye. For Owein instantly flipped young Rhiwallon onto his back just as Urien did the same to Elphin. Urien and Owein glanced at each other, and burst out laughing.
“No fair, no fair,” thirteen-year-old Enid shouted as she ran into the room. She stopped in front of her father and brothers and put her hands on her hips. “You didn’t wait for me.” Enid had her mother’s red-gold hair and blue eyes.
And then Queen Ellirri entered the room. She was a tall, slender woman. Her heart-shaped face was framed with a cloud of reddish gold hair and her eyes were sharp sapphire blue. She was dressed in a cream-colored gown, with an underskirt of rich, deep red. A necklace of opals encircled her slender neck, and her hair was braided into a crown at the top of her head. Opals were scattered throughout her hair.
“No fighting now, Enid. You’ve just gotten dressed up,” she said, her voice calm and cool. “And you boys—you are supposed to be dressed up by now, too. Festival tonight, remember?”
Reluctantly the boys straggled to their feet. Ellirri smiled at them and the three smiled back. “Very handsome, all of you. But your manners,” she shook her head.
“What’s wrong with our manners, Mam?” Elphin asked.
“Well for starters you are ignoring your guest,” she said, nodding to Gwydion who still stood in the doorway.
“Gwydion!” Urien roared, coming to his feet. “How are you, man?” he asked, giving Gwydion a hearty slap on the back that nearly felled him.
Gwydion straightened up and noticed that four pairs of awestruck eyes were staring at him. “The Dreamer,” Owein breathed. “You are welcome here,” he continued, bowing. He poked Elphin in the ribs. Elphin started, and then he too bowed. Rhiwallon also bowed and Enid, at a pinch from Owein, overcame her momentary paralysis and curtsied.
“All right, everyone. Boys, go get changed. Enid, dear, please go see the steward and tell her to set another place at the high table.” The children scattered to do Ellirri’s bidding. “Trystan,” she continued, “thank you for bringing Gwydion here.” Trystan, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, grinned and promptly left.
“You should change too, Urien, dear. I’ll take Gwydion to our rooms. Join us as soon as you can, won’t you?”
Urien smiled at his lovely wife and kissed her hand. “Your wish is my command, as always.”
Ellirri smiled and softly patted his rough cheek. Then she turned to Gwydion. Delicately she put her hand on his arm. “You are welcome, here, Gwydion. Come.”
He followed her across the hall to her room. The chamber was bright and cheerful. The furniture—wardrobes, chairs, and tables—was carved from light oak wood. Her huge, canopied bed was covered with a taupe-colored spread, worked in gold thread. The floor was covered here and there with small rugs, woven in red and cream. Golden vases that held masses of bright, red roses were scattered throughout the room.
She gestured Gwydion into a chair before the hearth. She sat on a chair next to him, and turned her fine, blue eyes upon him, smiling warmly. “Tell me all the news, Gwydion. How is Uthyr?” The two had been very close growing up. She had been far closer to her half brother, Uthyr, than to her full brother, Madoc.
“I haven’t seen much of him lately. I don’t get to Tegeingl at all any more.”
“I hope there’s no trouble between you two.”
“No trouble. But I am not very welcome at Uthyr’s court just the same.”
“Ah, yes, Ygraine. Charming as always, I’m sure,” Ellirri said, smiling.
Gwydion smiled back. “Indeed. But last I saw Uthyr he was well.” He didn’t mention, of course, that the last time he saw his brother he had been disguised as a scruffy man-at-arms.
“I’m glad he is well. I hope he is happy,” she said doubtfully. “I doubt he has ever gotten over Arthur’s death. Now, Gwydion, my dear, I am so glad to see you, but why have you come?”
“What makes you think I have a special reason?” Gwydion asked.
“My dear Gwydion, you never, ever do anything without two or more motives up your sleeve. You forget, I’ve known you a long time.”
Urien entered the room, sparing Gwydion a reply. He was dressed in a red tunic and breeches, with a beige-colored undershirt. He wore the Ruler’s Torque of gold, studded with opals, around his thick neck. An opal ring glittered from his right hand and a large opal dangled from his right ear. His short brown hair was freshly combed and his ruddy face glowed.
“Well, Gwydion,” he said in his usual bluff tone, “What’s up?” He turned toward Ellirri. “Has he said yet?”
“Not just yet, dear. Here, sit down.” She gestured to another chair but Urien took a place at the edge of the hearth. “Chair’s too little, I’d break it,” he grinned. “Now,” he turned to Gwydion, “tell us.”
“I’m looking for Rhiannon ur Hefeydd.”
“Oh, that gal that ran off a while back?” Urien asked.
“The same.”
“Well, she didn’t come here. Is that it?”
Ellirri said gently, “Perhaps Gwydion will tell us why he is looking for her.”
“I had a dream,” Gwydion said shortly.
“See?” Urien said, turning to his wife. “That’s all he ever says. Waste of time asking him anything. You know that. Plays his own game. Always did.”
Unaccountably, Gwydion flushed. Urien’s analysis of Gwydion’s constant evasions embarrassed him, perhaps most of all because Urien had said it without rancor.
“I’m sorry, Gwydion. But we have learned nothing here about her. Perhaps in Prydyn they know more,” Ellirri said.
“I just came from Prydyn, actually.”
“Oh! How is Rhoram?” Ellirri seemed to know something about how Rhoram usually was, for she asked the question with some trepidation.
“Better. He was doing quite well when I left.”
“Was he?” She turned to her husband. “I believe it might be well for Elphin to visit there now.”
“For what?” Urien asked in surprise.
“To meet Sanon, of course. Rhoram’s daughter.”
“Planning an alliance?” Gwydion asked.
“If they like each other,” Ellirri replied serenely. “I think I’ll send Owein with him as well. It would be good for him to travel a little.”
“Do as you think best, my dear,” Urien said.
“I need Trystan,” Gwydion said, somewhat abruptly.
“When?” Ellirri asked, her brows raised.
“He must come to Caer Dathyl by Suldydd, in Cynyddu Wythnos, Ysgawen Mis.”
“Why?” Urien asked curiously.
“I cannot tell you. Not now.”
Urien and Ellirri exchanged glances. Urien shrugged and Ellirri turned back to Gwydion.
“As you wish, Gwydion, dear,” she said calmly. “He will be there.”
“So,” Urien said, turning to Gwydion, “you’ve looked in Prydyn for this Rhiannon. And now here. Sorry we can’t help you. Where next?”
“I thought I’d go to Dinmael and talk to Queen Olwen.”
Ellirri and Urien exchanged a quick glance. Softly, Ellirri said, “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Gwydion.”
Gwydion was startled. “Why not?” He was pretty sure that Olwen would never actually like him, but he thought she had gotten over
what happened between them long ago.
“Well, you see—” Ellirri broke off, blushing hotly.
“What my wife’s trying to say is that you won’t be welcomed there,” Urien said bluntly. “Because Olwen’s a dumb, stubborn bitch.”
“What my husband’s trying to say, Gwydion, is that Queen Olwen is a bit angry with you,” Ellirri broke in.
Gwydion sighed. Getting the story out of these two was like pulling teeth. Again, he asked, “But why?”
“Kilwch’s death,” Urien said succinctly.
Kilwch had been Queen Olwen’s husband and Urien’s brother. He had died while swimming in the ocean two years ago when a treacherous undertow had swept him away.
Gwydion gritted his teeth. “And still, I am in the dark. What have I got to do with Kilwch’s death? Surely she doesn’t think that I had anything to do with it?”
“That’s just the problem,” Urien rumbled. “She’s angry because you let it happen. She says you must have dreamed of it, but did nothing. She says you wanted Kilwch to die, because you were jealous. She says you perch yourself in Caer Dathyl like some poisonous spider and spin your webs all over Kymru. She says—”
“I think Gwydion gets the gist of it, dear,” Ellirri interrupted.
“But, but, that’s ridiculous,” Gwydion sputtered. “Even if I had dreamed Kilwch’s death I couldn’t have prevented it, no matter what I did. Surely she knows that.”
“Hard to tell what she really knows, Gwydion,” Urien said. “I tell you Olwen’s become unhinged by my brother’s death. She’s a cold, hard woman—like her sister, Ygraine—who never forgets an injury. At least, that’s what I say. Ellirri here, though, says it’s more complicated than that. She’s probably right. She knows things like that.”
Gwydion turned to Ellirri. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Ellirri said quietly, “that Kilwch was a good husband—kind, and loving. Olwen undervalued him every day of their marriage, and I think she’s regretted that since the day he died. And so, she has to blame someone. And that someone is you.”
“She’ll have to stand in line then,” Gwydion said lightly. “There are a lot of people ahead of her who blame me for their problems.” Although he smiled when he said it, Ellirri laid her hand on his arm in silent sympathy. Her kindness caught him off guard and, for a moment, his throat tightened. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll just have to deal with her the best I can. I need to go there.”
“Good luck,” Urien said cheerfully. “You’ll need it.”
THE GREAT HALL that night was warm with light and cheerful laughter. The fire glowed in the huge fireplace, turning the banner above it of a horse, outlined in opals and gold, into a shape of living flame.
The King’s table on the dais was a large one in order to accommodate his family and the chief officers of his court. Gwydion sat now at Uthyr’s right and on Gwydion’s right sat Sabrina ur Dadweir, Urien’s Druid. She was a raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty. If she had shown the slightest interest in him, Gwydion would have gladly reciprocated—for the night, anyway. But she did not. They chatted amicably together, but that was all.
Young Owein sat next to Sabrina. Owein was quiet, but though he rarely spoke he listened attentively to everyone. Bledri sat on Owein’s right and the boy’s occasional glances at the King’s Dewin spoke volumes of dislike.
Just now Bledri was regaling young Enid with an amusing story. Enid hung breathlessly on his every word with a young girl’s infatuation shining in her blue eyes.
Breaking off in the middle of his story to Enid, Bledri leaned forward across the table and turned toward Gwydion. The gray eyes in his handsome face were alight with mischief. “Tell me, Gwydion ap Awst, do you know the story of Cadwallon and Caradoc?”
“I do,” Gwydion replied mildly, wondering what Bledri was up to. Cadwallon and Caradoc had been twins, the sons of the first King of Rheged. The younger twin’s jealousy of his older brother had almost ruined the kingdom.
“An old and far too familiar tale, don’t you think?” Bledri said smiling, but his eyes cut to Owein on his left. “Two brothers, and the younger madly jealous of the older. Jealous enough of his older brother to want to kill him and take his place as King.” Bledri shook his head in mock dismay. “Such a shame. What happens to brotherly love in such a situation, eh? Oh, but I am forgetting. Perhaps Owein could tell us about that.”
Owein stiffened, his eyes shooting daggers at the smiling Bledri. Sabrina, too, had stiffened at Bledri’s taunt, and even Enid’s smile faded.
“What do you mean by that?” Owein said sharply.
“Why, nothing to be upset about,” Bledri said smoothly.
“Your elder brother is heir, and we all know you love your brother. But such a situation can be difficult. I thought that perhaps you could tell us how you yourself avoid feelings of rancor. For we know you do, don’t we?”
Owein flushed and his hand darted to his dagger. Suddenly, Sabrina said artlessly, “Oh. That reminds me of something that I heard the other day. It seems that there was this wise woman who had a cat . . .” She launched into a long and rambling tale about a mischievous feline who had drunk an untended potion made by his mistress, rendering the cat invisible. By the time she was done the tension had eased, although Bledri still had a sardonic smile on his handsome face.
“Owein,” Urien called out from farther down the table.
“Yes, Da?” Owein answered his voice calm, though his face was still flushed.
“Better start packing, boy,” Urien said cheerfully.
“Where am I going?”
Ellirri leaned forward and announced, “Elphin and Owein—Trystan will be taking you to Arberth to visit King Rhoram’s court.”
Across the table Esyllt, the King’s Bard, frowned. “Madam,” she said in her low, musical tones, “I think I should go, too.” Trystan’s eyes brightened, and March, Esyllt’s husband, looked up quickly. He said nothing, but protest was visible in every line of his stocky, heavy frame.
“I think not, Esyllt,” Ellirri replied. Although the comment was made gently, it was obvious that the matter was not open to further discussion.
But Esyllt tried again, anyway. “But madam, I think that—”
“I’m sure you do, my dear,” Ellirri interjected smoothly.
“Nevertheless you shall stay here. Sabrina, I believe it is time to begin the festival.”
Sabrina nodded and rose. Her blue eyes glistened momentarily as she took in Esyllt’s flushed face, March’s relief, and Trystan’s disappointed scowl.
As the folk in the Great Hall began to file out behind Sabrina, Gwydion caught Ellirri’s arm. “What was that all about?” he whispered, nodding to Esyllt who was leaving arm in arm with her husband. Trystan followed closely behind, his face tight.
“Trystan needs to concentrate on protecting my sons, Gwydion,” Ellirri said sharply. “With Esyllt along he’d have eyes for no one but her.”
“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she just divorce March? Trystan’s in love with her and she’s in love with him.”
“Are you so sure about that? I’m not. And neither, I think, is Trystan.”
“Women,” Gwydion spat, putting a world of scorn into the word. “They get hold of a man and ruin them, if they can.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Ellirri said sharply. “You forget. For every woman who treats a man like a dog, there is a man who will let her.”
GWYDION STOOD NEXT to Ellirri and Trystan in Nemed Draenenwen, the sacred grove of hawthorn trees. Many hundreds of folk from the city were gathered here to celebrate Alban Haf, the festival honoring Modron, the Great Mother.
Trystan stood on Gwydion’s right, while Esyllt stood some paces away, next to her husband. Trystan shot glance after glance at Esyllt, as though waiting for something, but she stood quietly, not daring to raise her eyes.
The moon was full shining through the delicate white flowers that covered the trees. An unl
it bonfire of holly and oak was laid out in the middle of the grove. A stone altar stood at the eastern end of the clearing. Two golden bowls studded with opals, one full of grains and another filled with sprigs of vervain, were laid on top of the stone. Eight unlit torches had been placed around the altar where Sabrina now stood. Lifting her hands, she began the ritual.
“This is the Wheel of the Year before us. One torch for each of the eight festivals in which we honor the Shining Ones,” she intoned solemnly. As she pointed to each torch, they in turn burst into flame. “Calan Olau, Alban Nerth, Calan Gaef, Alban Nos, Calan Morynion, Alban Awyr, Calan Llachar, and Alban Haf, which we celebrate tonight. We gather here to honor Modron, the Great Mother of All. She who gives life to all, she who gives us the Earth’s bounty.”
As one the crowd responded, “We honor her.”
“Let the Shining Ones be honored as they gather to watch the great battle of the champions. Taran, King of the Winds and Mabon, King of Fire. Nantsovelta, Lady of the Waters. Annwyn, Lord of Chaos and Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood and Cerrunnos, Master of the Hunt. Y Rhyfelwr, Agrona and Camulos, the Warrior Twins. Sirona, Lady of the Stars and Grannos, Star of the North and Healer.”
Again, the crowd responded, “We honor the Shining Ones.”
Enid, her face flushed with pride, began her part in the festival. “Why is this the longest day of the year?” she asked.
Sabrina answered, “This is the day when Mabon, King of Fire, Lord of the Sun, tarries in his journey across the sky to watch the champions of Modron and Aertan fight to unleash the bounty of the Earth.”
“Why do they fight?” Enid continued.
“Behold, Modron struggles to bring forth the fruits of the land. She seeks to give birth to the bounty of summer. But she must have vervain to aid her in the birthing. So she sends to Gwlad Yr Haf for the herb, but Aertan, the Weaver of Fate, commands Modron to choose a champion to win the vervain from her.”
