This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘The same way all legends happen.’ Creirwy squeezed his arm in comfort. ‘Someone is telling tales about you. And who stands to profit most from promoting you as a luminary?’

  ‘My king.’ Who else knew all those details about his life? Gwion did not really appreciate having his life made known to the world, and he intended to express as much to his highness at the first given opportunity.

  At the grand crossroads to the city, another barricade of guards requested names – thankfully without a song and dance this time. Gwion was directed to continue north down the main street two blocks, take the right fork in the road and follow it to the end where they would find their allocated villa.

  ‘Much obliged.’ Gwion got their team moving, appeased that his legend might not be as widespread as first imagined.

  ‘That was Gwion Bach!’ he heard the guard announce behind him, whereupon another round of the song broke out in their wake.

  Creirwy laughed at this agitation. ‘Are you having fun yet?’

  ‘Actually,’ Gwion shook it off, and had a good look around him, ‘this place is far more splendid than I’d imagined.’

  The old, majestic Roman forum occupied the left side of the street for blocks – it was undergoing repairs and being re-painted red and gold. But even in disrepair the architecture took Gwion’s breath away, as did all the original buildings they had passed. He fancied this was the closest he would ever come to experiencing how Rome itself must have appeared. On the opposite side of the paved thoroughfare another two-storey forum had been erected to the same Roman building specifications, only wood had been used in place of stone – carved, engraved and painted, the structure was equally ornate and impressive, but distinctively Cymry.

  They were certainly in noble territory now; everyone here was adorned with their most exotic colours, jewellery and finery – his people were nothing if not vain. There were no crowds here, only beautiful nobles taking in the sights at their leisure, many with a goblet of their preferred brew in hand.

  Once they took the fork in the road, there was hardly anyone on the street, just attendants unloading belongings and readying accommodation. At the end of the street was a high-walled villa, out front of which stood a young, fair, bright-eyed fellow and an equally vibrant young woman.

  ‘Most esteemed guests of our king, welcome to Viroco.’ The young man bowed. ‘I am Iolo, and I shall be your porter for your stay. This is my wife, Sain.’

  The lady curtsied.

  ‘She will show you into the villa, while I attend your luggage and see to your horses.’

  ‘Your service is most welcome.’ Gwion jumped to the ground and turned to assist his lady down.

  ‘There is refreshment in the atrium.’ Sain opened the large wooden gates onto a passage. This led into a beautiful courtyard, with pillars and verandas all round, dormant vines and a central mosaic pool that caught fresh rainwater for the household.

  On a table by the pool was a jug of water, another of wine, two goblets, fresh bread and creamy cheese.

  ‘Wine, Lord?’ Sain queried, but Gwion covered the top of his vessel as his hazy head from last night had only just passed.

  ‘Just water, thank you.’

  Creirwy chuckled at this.

  ‘My Lady?’ Sain filled Gwion’s goblet.

  ‘Likewise.’ Creirwy walked around the domus, eyeing it over, for they had both been seated for too long.

  Iolo came up the passageway with the chest containing the gift for the King perched on his shoulder. ‘My Lord, the King has heard of your arrival and has asked that you join him in the new forum as soon as you are able.’

  ‘I am not a lord.’ Gwion found his address amusing. ‘Please place that in my quarters,’ he referred to the chest on the porter’s shoulder. ‘It is for the King, and not to be opened.’

  ‘Understood, Master Gwion, Sir,’ said Iolo.

  Gwion was even more amused by Iolo’s address.

  ‘Is it just Gwion his majesty requests?’ Creirwy asked.

  ‘’Twas only his name mentioned,’ Iolo replied.

  ‘I have a hot bath drawn, if my lady would find that pleasing?’ Sain suggested, and Creirwy smiled.

  ‘Your lady finds that a far more appealing notion at this stage of the day.’ She waved Gwion farewell.

  ‘I shall return to escort you to this evening’s feast,’ Gwion vowed.

  ‘I can hardly wait.’ She forced a smile and followed Sain indoors.

  Gwion made his way back to the new forum on foot, being eyed over by the nobility at leisure as he was about the only guest moving with pace, showing little interest in those he passed. The forum was heavily guarded around the exterior, funnelling guests in through one main covered access. As people entered, they stated their name to the official, who announced their arrival to everyone already in the forum.

  In light of this morning’s sing song, Gwion was feeling awkward as his turn to enter came; but then again, it seemed conceited to think that his name would mean anything to the royal folk gathered here.

  ‘Name?’ asked the official.

  ‘Gwion of Tegid.’

  The official checked his list. ‘I have no one of that name.’

  Gwion rolled his eyes. ‘My king may have listed me as Gwion Bach.’

  ‘As in—’

  ‘Yes . . . as in the ode,’ Gwion preempted.

  ‘My apologies, your Holiness.’ The official bowed. ‘Of course, you are expected.’

  Holiness? Gwion felt this had gone just a bit too far.

  ‘The venerable Gwion Bach,’ the official announced loudly, and the entire forum fell into silence.

  The moment was so surreal it stopped Gwion in his tracks; his throat went dry and his heart was racing. He wished now he’d used Keridwen’s ring to make himself invisible – he could have slipped in to see the King quietly. But as it was, all eyes were upon him as he descended the few stairs into the forum courtyard, where guests were strewn between marquees containing food, wine and entertainment – though even the music ceased. Please don’t let them start singing, he silently prayed, as people reverently backed out of his way.

  A single person clapping rousted the entire forum to join the applause.

  Cheeks burning, Gwion looked to where the acclaim had originated, to see the King walking into his line of sight, still clapping and grinning broadly. A man followed behind him, leading a beautiful dark grey horse. Gwion bowed upon his king’s approach, hoping his expression did not reflect how much he wished to kill his liege in this moment.

  ‘It is a joy to see you, my friend.’ The King gripped Gwion’s forearm firmly, then embraced him as a brother, with a friendly slap on his back. Gwion took advantage of being in such close proximity to have a whisper in Owain’s ear. ‘Could I request a brief word in private?’

  ‘We have much to discuss, and we will,’ the King stepped back to assure him, holding up a finger to beg his patience as the forum fell silent to hear their conversation. ‘But first . . . allow me to introduce you to “Moonlight”.’ Owain referred back to the beautiful grey mare that had been brought to a standstill behind him. ‘I scoured my entire kingdom to find a mount worthy of a living legend.’

  Gwion’s heart jumped into his throat, panicked by the acclaim and the suspicion that the King was about to gift him a large beast!

  ‘She is yours, Gwion, for your undying service to king and country.’ Owain smiled broadly, no doubt pleased to have shocked him out of his perturbed mood.

  ‘I am most honoured by your gift, Highness, but . . . what am I to do with a horse?’ His query roused some amusement from the crowd.

  ‘Well . . . you could ride it,’ the King suggested with a good serve of sarcasm, playing to their audience. ‘Maybe then I shall be accorded your company and counsel more often.’ Owain met his eye, and this statement felt rather more genuine.

  Gwion was touched by the King’s favour, but he was well aware that he was being manipulated. What’s more, Gwion
knew why. He understood that he must be seen as allied with his king, and whether or not he desired the gift, he must accept it graciously – at least in public. ‘She is an extraordinary beauty, Sire. I shall treasure her.’ Gwion approached the animal and stroked her soft, grey neck. ‘You are as generous as you are modest, Majesty . . . for clearly you have made unbelievable progress here in Powys, without any assistance from me.’

  ‘Without you, there would be no Powys,’ Owain insisted.

  Gwion was going to argue this, but cheers from their audience drowned out any chance of being heard.

  ‘Have the horse stabled with the others from Tegid,’ the King instructed the horse master, who led the horse away. ‘You need a drink.’ Owain beckoned Gwion to walk with him.

  On the mezzanine level of the forum there was a private audience chamber, overlooking the courtyard below. As the door was closed behind them, Gwion finally felt at liberty to speak. ‘With all respect, my Liege—’

  ‘I know what you are going to say,’ Owain interjected. ‘But all battles must have heroes. Such legends reassure the people in the wake of war.’

  ‘I am not a holy man.’ Gwion could not stress enough how uncomfortable that implication made him. ‘There are bards in that courtyard that have studied decades longer than I—’

  ‘And none of them have ever been invited to study under Keridwen.’ The King moved to the table to pour them both some mead.

  ‘Majesty . . . I am your loyal servant. There is no need to buy my favour with gifts and accolades—’

  ‘You don’t like the horse?’

  ‘I don’t like my life being known to the entire land!’ Gwion took a deep breath, to calm his unstable emotions.

  ‘I apologise for taking such liberties, Gwion, but the truth is, it was a tactical move—’ The King handed a goblet of mead to him.

  ‘I am the most personable of your allies at Castell Tegid, I understand that—’

  ‘You are the most amiable of my allies full-stop.’ Owain drank a large gulp of mead and took a seat, inviting Gwion to do the same. ‘With the acquisition of Powys, I now rule more territory than any of the Sons. I have redistributed some of my territories to my brothers, as my father would have wished it. Caswallon now rules Rhostir from Degannwy, Cadfer retains the Eryri, and Cyngen Brockwell and my sister Gladys have been put in charge of the rebuilding of our family stronghold at Aberffraw on Mon. And this—’ Owain reached for a folded piece of parchment bearing the royal seal ‘—is for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Gwion was already overwhelmed by Owain’s favour, but took the item in hand so as not to seem rude.

  ‘It is the deed to a plot of land on the isle of Mon.’

  ‘No, Sire.’ Gwion placed the deed back on the table, unopened. ‘I require no further reward—’

  ‘It bequeaths to you Llyn Cerrig.’ The news took Gwion’s breath away, for it was an ancient, sacred place.

  ‘It seemed fitting to me that where the last of the true druids died, should belong to the next great druid to be born.’ The King retrieved the deed and again offered it to him.

  ‘I am not a holy man.’ Gwion grew tired of repeating himself.

  ‘Tell that to the one thousand men you saved from the abyss of the Night Hunter.’ Owain raised both brows, knowing the argument was won, and taking hold of Gwion’s wrist, he slapped the missive back into Gwion’s palm. ‘The land is yours whether you choose to settle it or not. In light of your deeds, it would appear completely remiss of me as king not to see such bravery rewarded.’

  ‘If my deeds had not been made known, no one would be the wiser.’

  ‘I am not solely to blame for your fame, Gwion. You can hardly expect to go around performing miracles and expect no one will hear of it.’

  Gwion toyed with the royal decree, considering something Owain said earlier that made Gwion suspect that his king’s generosity stemmed from fear, rather than gratitude. ‘Do you sense resentment from the other Sons?’

  ‘I have the most land, acclaim, and Otherworldly support. I control the main trading route and shall marry the most beautiful woman in the whole of Cymru.’ Owain cited his reasons for feeling so. ‘I have never been so exulted, nor so envied.’

  Here was the crux of the matter – Gwion was the only one who knew the secret that could give the Sons good reason to turn against Owain. ‘If you believe for a moment that I would play any part in your undoing, just kill me now, Sire, and put your mind to rest.’

  ‘I can hardly build you into a hero and then murder you,’ Owain dismissed the suggestion as a bit extreme.

  ‘Then be at peace. What I know, I shall never tell another living soul.’

  ‘Not even the Lady Tegid?’

  ‘No living soul,’ Gwion repeated.

  ‘Is she still mad at me?’ Owain ventured to inquire. ‘How did the Lady take the news of my marriage?’

  ‘The Lady Tegid has other interests that occupy her time and thoughts these days, Majesty,’ Gwion told him in earnest. ‘She claims to bear you no ill-will.’

  Owain forced a smile. ‘Then, I thank you for whatever part you played in my absolution.’

  ‘My pleasure entirely.’ Gwion was honest.

  A quizzical, perturbed expression flashed across the King’s face, before he grinned and nodded. ‘All is as it should be then.’

  ‘You are content with your marriage to the Lady Ganhumara?’

  ‘Very content . . . and she seems so with me,’ Owain was delighted to inform. ‘The Lady doesn’t confuse me, chastise or lecture me.’

  ‘That does sound promising.’ Gwion was happy for him. ‘The Goddess smiles on us all.’

  ‘That she does,’ Owain concurred, sounding more curious than agreeable.

  ‘Which reminds me.’ Gwion clicked his fingers to change the subject. ‘I bear a gift to you from my mistress, who has instructed that I present it to you in absolute privacy.’

  ‘How mysterious.’ Owain perked up. ‘Perhaps later this evening, while everyone is feasting, I can accompany you to your villa? That will be far more private than any of my dwellings at present.’

  ‘But your guests—’

  ‘All know me already,’ the King emphasised. ‘It’s my betrothed they all wish to meet.’

  ‘Speaking of the feast, if it pleases your highness, I should return to the villa as I promised to escort the Lady Tegid.’ Gwion polished off his drink, placed his goblet on the table and rose.

  ‘I shall have a chariot sent to fetch you both,’ Owain insisted. ‘Our guests of honour must arrive in a manner befitting their eminence.’

  Gwion had expected to be on show this evening as escort to the Lady Tegid, and as he was still in possession of sacred land and a huge beast that he had no idea what to do with, clearly there was little point to arguing any matter with a king. ‘As you wish, Highness.’

  Back at the villa, Gwion took his turn in the bathrooms, of which there were three! The first of these contained a cold bath and basin of water, where Gwion washed his hands before being led into a warm room containing benches, hooks and tables.

  ‘The Master can disrobe here, and I shall lay out your fresh clothes for this evening, while you bathe.’

  ‘What fresh clothes?’ Gwion sat and unbound his boots.

  ‘The Lady Tegid provided both the instruction to see you to a bath, and the garments,’ Iolo explained.

  ‘Well then, best do as the Lady says.’ He cast aside his boots and was stunned to find the stone warm and soothing beneath the soles of his feet. ‘How marvellous!’

  Iolo explained that a furnace, built into the exterior wall of the house beneath the bath in the hot room, funnelled heat throughout the dwelling both under foot and up through the dividing walls. This same system was still used within all the old Roman dwellings in the city.

  Gwion sat on the interior stairs of the bath, neck-deep in water, having worn out the novelty of being able to swim around in a hot body of water. He had to wonder if Creirwy
had been as impressed by this chamber as he was. This bath was more like a pool – bigger, grander and deeper than even those at Castell Tegid. The mosaic tile work in the pool and on the walls, depicting Roman gods and heroes, was just exquisite. Gwion could have lingered here for hours very happily, but he was painfully aware that the evening shadows were fast fading into night.

  His new clothes were even finer than those the Goddess had first given him, and were in varying shades of grey. Clearly, these garments were for special occasions only as their paler colours made them impractical for everyday wear.

  ‘Very handsome,’ commented Creirwy as he joined her in the atrium.

  He did a spin for her amusement. ‘We match.’

  For the Lady wore a slender-fitting gown, woven from pale grey thread dipped in silver, which sparkled in the light like dew along a spider’s web. Slung around her hips was a wide belt of chain mail that latched at the front behind a buckle bearing the Dragon of Gwynedd. The same symbol featured on the clasp of her hooded cape, constructed of the same sparkling fabric. Cymry women wore their hair in two long braids, but Creirwy left her long, silvery hair loose and free – no doubt to flaunt the fact that she was not bound by the laws and traditions of mortal men.

  ‘We do.’ She did a spin for him also. ‘A reminder to every woman here of who you came with.’

  She was breathtaking – Gwion’s heart welled and his eyes began to water. ‘You are a vision so splendid that no one will even realise I am present.’ He’d never felt more honoured as he offered the Lady his arm. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘So long as you and your pleasant demeanour stay close . . .’ she entwined her arm in his, ‘I shall be as happy as a lark.’

  Gwion, having spent most of his life in a forest, found her simile amusing. ‘Larks don’t sing all the time because they are happy, but because they are seeking to mate and are fiercely territorial.’

  ‘I know.’ She squeezed his arm tighter as Iolo parted the house gates to the street, where their chariot awaited. The reveal was like a porthole to another world had been opened before them. A city, so full of light after sundown, was a splendour to behold. Gwion had never imagined such a spectacle, nor, he fancied, had anyone visiting the restored city for the first time. There were cylindrical lanterns burning outside the gates of every dwelling, framed in bronze, with domed hinged lids. Plates made of scraped horn had been used to fashion the semi-opaque white windows that protected the light source of burning oil within and yet allowed it to illume a large sphere. The lanterns hung on a chain – held aloft by a rigid handle. With so many lanterns burning along the main route to the forum, there were no shadows to speak of – just a magical warm glow, inviting you towards the Royal Mile.