The rest of the festivities failed to kindle Charis’ interest. She neither saw nor did not see, heard nor did not hear. She ate some food offered to her, but did not taste a bite. The afternoon passed and she heard her mother saying, “It is time to go. Do you want to stay here all night?”
The shadows had grown long, and the sun was well along in its plunge to the sea. “Have you been asleep, Charis?”
“No,” she shook her head slightly. “Not asleep.”
Her mother stood. “We must hurry along.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the sacrifice. Have you forgotten?” Briseis studied her daughter closely. “Charis, are you well?”
Charis stood abruptly. “I want to see her.”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
“What girl? Charis, what are you talking about?”
“We are going to walk up the hill now and watch the Magi perform the sacrifice to Bel,” explained her aunt.
“I have to see her.”
“Who?” The queen knelt beside her daughter. “Charis, answer me. Who do you mean?”
“The bull girl-the dancer. I must go to her.”
“But it is late. We cannot”
“No! I need to see her. I must!” Charis cried.
Briseis stood; concern sharpened her features. “Very well, there is a room Below where the dancers ready themselves. Perhaps, she is still there-although the physicians may have taken her to the temple.”
The three made their way to the room beneath the royal loge where the bull dancers prepared themselves before each ceremony. It was dark there and cool, the light filtering in from narrow slit windows and from a grate above. They were met by a white-robed Mage who, having taken off his tall hat, appeared squat, his long, curling hair hanging limply to his shoulders.
“We have come to see the dancer who was injured,” explained Briseis.
“You wish to make an offering?” inquired the Mage.
“No, we”
“You cannot see her,” he said and moved to shut the door on them.
“Do you not recognize your queen?” asked Elaine sharply. She put her hand on the door. “This is Queen Briseis and her daughter. I am Queen Elaine of Tairn. We wish to see the bull girl now.”
The door creaked open a crack wider. “She is resting quietly.”
“We will stay but a moment,” said Elaine. “It might cheer her to receive us.”
Briseis extended her hand. The Mage raised his palm and four silver coins clinked into it. The door swung open to admit them. “Through there,” he said, pointing to a small door beyond.
The three passed through a long room, spare of furniture but containing a table, some chairs, and the few props and training apparatus of the bull dancer’s art. They passed the huge double doors that opened to the arena outside and went to the door of the inner chamber. Briseis knocked gently and entered. The room was dim but light enough to see the still form lying on the bed. Charis crept close.
The young woman lay without a covering, bare except for her loincloth and the thick bandage around her middle. Fresh blood stained the bandage and the girl’s skin glistened with clammy sweat; her breath was shallow.
“She is asleep,” whispered Charis.
They gazed at the girl for a moment and then turned to go. The injured dancer heard the movement and opened her eyes. “Nieri?” Her voice was soft and there was no force behind it.
Charis turned and their eyes met. “Who are you?” the dancer asked.
“I am Charis-I saw you dance.”
“What do you want?” the bull girl whispered.
“I wanted-we came…” Charis trembled and looked around to her mother for help.
“We came to see how you were,” explained Briseis.
“Now you have seen,” rasped the dancer. “Leave me.”
“Come along, Charis, we must go,” said her mother.
Charis hesitated. “Will you be all right?” she asked.
“Leave me!” the bull girl whispered.
“Come now, Charis,” said Elaine.
“Will you be all right?” Charis asked again, her tone gentle but insistent.
“What do you care?” sneered the girl softly. “You come to my deathbed to watch me die-did you not see enough in the ring?” A tear slipped from her eye to slide down her pale cheek.
“Charis?” the queen said.
But the princess stood unmoved. “Are you dying?”
The bull girl, lips trembling, closed her eyes. “Just leave me,” she said and turned her face away.
“We will send someone” began Charis.
“Go.” The word was a whisper but carried the finality of the tomb.
Charis turned and followed her mother and Queen Elaine out. “The ungrateful slut,” said Elaine when they reached the corridor. “We offer help and she orders us away.”
“Why, Mother?” Charis asked, near tears. “Why did she hate us?”
“Perhaps she thought we intended some offense.”
“Hmph!” sniffed Elaine. “She hadn’t the manners of one of her Beloved bulls. I say she got no better than she deserved. They do all sorts of unnatural things with those animals, I hear.”
“Elaine, please,” said Briseis softly, nodding toward Charis.
When they reached the outer doors once more and stepped into the daylight, Charis stopped. She glanced at the Mage who was now sitting in a chair beside the door. “Why was there no physician?”
“There should have been,” replied Briseis.
Charis turned to her mother urgently. “We must send for the king’s physician at once.”
“For her!” Elaine scoffed.
“He will be difficult to reach now,” said Briseis.
“We must reach him! I told her we would send someone.”
Briseis looked at her daughter and then back at the darkened doorway behind them. “Very well, we will try.”
CHAPTER FOUR
After two days and most of one night in the saddle Elphin reached Diganhwy, a fair-sized settlement on the hills above the Aberconwy. The tide was out, and as he approached he saw a score of people working the mud flats. Some of them hailed him as he rode by, others watched him pass in silence.
An old woman was sitting before a stone hut splitting and gutting a catch of fish. Two cats hissed at her feet and snapped up the offal as it fell. Elphin stopped and greeted her. “I have come to inquire after the woman Rhonwyn, who is kin to my mother,” he told her. “Can you tell me where she can be found?”
The crone raised her head from her work and peered at the rider and the empty saddle next to him. “I might,” she answered, “if I knew who was asking.”
“I am Elphin ap Gwyddeo Garanhir, who is lord and king of Gwynedd. Your chief will know me if you do not,” he told her. “I have come for the help of a kinswoman and mean no harm to anyone here.”
The woman put down her fish and stood creakily. She lifted a gnarled hand and pointed up the hill, whose sides were dotted with black-faced sheep. “The one you seek lives with her mother beyond. Ask for the house of Eithne; you will find it there below the din.”
Elphin continued on his way, tired from his journey but hopeful that his task would soon be accomplished. He gained the crest of the hill just as the sun slipped below the rim of the sea, leaving an orange glow where it sank beneath the waves. There were twelve or more dwellings on top of the hill, which was crowned by a fortress consisting of a rough stone tower atop a mound ringed by a ditch and surrounded by a timber palisade. Several of the stone houses already showed a ruddy glow in their narrow windows.
Two ill-fed black dogs stood before the nearer huts and barked at him. A boy appeared from behind a low sheep wall with a stick in his hand and ran to beat one of the dogs. Elphin called to him and asked which was the house he sought.
The boy made no answer but pointed with the stick to a white rock hut at the end of a narrow street formed by a double ro
w of round houses and paved with crashed oyster shells. Elphin rode to the hut, dismounted, and stretched his aching muscles. A woman who vaguely resembled Medhir emerged from the house and stared at him.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“How should I know you, sir? I have never seen you.”
“Perhaps you do not know me,” he said, “but you know my mother.”
Eithne came nearer and looked more closely at him. “Of course,” she said at last, smiling and clapping her hands on his shoulders, “Medhir’s son, Elphin! Little Elphin! Look at you now. A man you are! How is my cousin?”
“She is well and sends her greetings.”
Eithne cast a glance at the twilight sky. “Whatever brings you here can wait until tomorrow. You will stay with us tonight. There is only my daughter and myself, with my husband drowned these two years past. We have room by the fire.”
“Then I will stay with you-but one night only, for tomorrow I must return home.” Elphin tethered the horses on the hillside so they could crop the new spring grass there, and then followed Eithne into the house.
Elphin entered to see a woman kneeling at the hearth, stirring up the embers to make the fire on which to cook the evening meal. She held a handful of dry grass to the glowing bed and the flame caught, banishing the shadows from her face.
Rhonwyn turned to him, and he saw a young woman of surpassing beauty with long auburn hair and large dark eyes set in a face as fair as any he had ever seen. She rose gracefully and turned toward him. Eithne introduced her daughter to him, saying, “My kinswoman’s son, Elphin ap Gwyddno, is staying with us tonight. We must prepare a meal worthy of a lord’s son, for such he is.”
Rhonwyn bowed her head and went to work, bringing out meat and cheese and bread, which she set on a narrow board at one end of the room. Eithne brought out a skin of mead and poured a cup for herself and Elphin.
Elphin accepted the earthenware cup and spilled a drop out of respect for the household god, then sipped his drink. “Ah, there is none better in my father’s house,” he remarked, which pleased his hostess immensely.
“Did you hear, Rhonwyn? Do not allow his cup to become empty.” She smiled as she gazed at him. “It is good to have a man beneath this roof. We will celebrate your coming, for perhaps it bodes well for us.”
“That is my hope, too. And we will talk more of it later.”
“Yes, later. But first tell me how my cousin fares in Caer Dyvi. It is many months since I last heard from her.”
Elphin began telling her of Medhir’s doings and all that had happened in Caer Dyvi during the long winter months-who had been sick, who had died or given birth, the health of the livestock, the prospects for the year’s crops. She listened intently and would have gone on listening if Rhonwyn had not approached to say that the meal was ready.
Eithne and Rhonwyn lifted the full-laden table and moved it to the center of the room, offering Elphin the seat closest to the fire. He sat down on the household’s only chair, while the women sat on three-legged work stools. Rhonwyn served him, filling his wooden plate with roast meat, slabs of yellow cheese, and small loaves of brown bread. Eithne refilled his cup and they began to eat.
“This meat is tender and roasted to perfection,” remarked Elphin, licking his greasy fingers. He popped a tidbit of cheese into his mouth and said, “The cheese is smooth as cream, and tasty.”
Eithne smiled. “Rhonwyn made it-she had Brighid’s own way about her, as everyone knows hereabouts. You should hear what they say of her.”
Rhonwyn lowered her head. “Mother!” she whispered tersely. “He has not come to hear you prattle about me.”
Elphin, who had been watching her every move since he had entered the tiny house, exclaimed, “Prattle, is it? That I heartily doubt. I say it myself: the goddess herself could not bake bread as soft, nor make cheese half so smooth!”
“You flatter me, Elphin ap Gwyddno,” answered Rhonwyn, looking at him directly for the first time. “The son of a lord must be used to better fare.” In the glowing firelight, her fine features were even more lovely and Elphin’s heart swelled within him to see her. Why was this beautiful woman still unmarried?
“It is not flattery to speak the truth.”
Eithne smiled broadly and handed Elphin the platter of roast meat, saying, “Eat! You have ridden far on your errand and must be hungry. We have plenty. Please, eat your fill.”
Elphin helped himself to a bit more, but after a few bites he pushed his plate away. In truth, he had lost his appetite. All he wanted to do was sit and gaze at Rhonwyn, whose beauty filled him with joy and longing at the same time.
Supper over, the table was removed and they placed the chair and stools beside the hearth. “Perhaps our guest will sleep better with a song in his ears,” suggested Eithne.
Rhonwyn gave her mother a cross look, but Elphin encouraged, “Please, I would enjoy a song. Do you play?”
“Does she play?” answered her mother. “Her music is as sweet as Rhiannon’s birds, to hear people talk. Fetch your harp, girl, and play for young Elphin here.”
Rhonwyn did as she was told and went to the back of the house to a nook where she brought forth a small harp in a leather wrap. She took her place by the fire and tuned the harp, then began to play. Elphin settled back in his chair.
Her voice was pure and melodious, like clear spring water ringing in a sun-filled glade, her fingers deft on the strings of the harp. Elphin closed his eyes and let the music fill his heart with gladness. “Such a woman,” he thought; “a rare treasure to be sure…”
He awoke some time later to find himself still sitting in his chair, but wrapped in a woolen blanket, the fire burning low on the hearth. Rhonwyn and her mother lay asleep on a thick bed of rushes in a corner of the house. He stirred, and Rhonwyn awoke and came to him.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb Eithne, for he wished to speak with Rhonwyn privately. “I must have fallen asleep while you played.”
“You were tired from your journey,” she said. “But you must not sleep in that chair all night or you will be stiff as a root in the morning. Let me prepare you a place by the fire.”
“Please, do not trouble yourself further.”
“It is no trouble, and I do it gladly, for it is that long since my mother has smiled. I know nothing of your errand here in Diganhwy, but at least you have made my mother happy.”
“What would make you happy, Rhonwyn?” he asked.
She looked at him a little sadly. “I was never meant for happiness, it seems.”
“I will not Believe that. Surely, there is something that would make you happy.”
Rhonwyn did not answer but busied herself arranging a bed of rushes before the hearth and brought a calfskin and placed it on the bed. “Good night to you,” she said and returned to her bed.
“Rest well,” whispered Elphin, and he lay down before the fire to sleep.
When Elphin awakened the next morning, he heard Rhonwyn singing, and so lay quietly just to hear her voice once more. When he finally rose, he saw that she had prepared a breakfast for him. Eithne was nowhere to be seen.
“My mother has gone to tend the sheep,” Rhonwyn said, following his eyes. She wore a simple white tunic and a wide woolen girdle with shells woven in spiral designs, and Elphin noticed her body still bore witness to her recent pregnancy. “I know nothing of your business, but it may go better with a meal under your Belt.”
“First a song and now a meal,” remarked Elphin happily. “I am twice blessed this day already and the sun is not yet up.”
Rhonwyn blushed and lowered her head. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“I am glad you did, for now we can talk. I have something to ask you.”
“Shall we sit?” she asked, indicating the table. Elphin helped her move it to the center of the room and sat. Rhonwyn served him and then seated herself. He put a chunk of cheese in his mouth and gazed thoughtfully at the young woman beside him.
A fresh wind off the sea whispered in the thatch of the roof and carried the bleating of sheep on the hill.
Rhonwyn lifted a piece of bread to her mouth, lowered it again, and looked at Elphin, her glance direct and unafraid. “Why do you look at me so, lord?”
“Why do you call me that?” he asked.
“Why? Your father is a lord and you are his son. You will be a lord yourself one day.”
“It is not always so.”
“No, not always,” Rhonwyn agreed amiably. “But often enough these days. My mother tells me your father is a renowned battlechief with many heads won by his hand. Your kinsmen must look favorably on your succession.”
Elphin placed his hands on the table. “Would you think less of me if I were never to be lord?”
Rhonwyn considered this. “The ambitions of men are of little interest to me.”
The directness of her answers surprised Elphin. Here was a woman who spoke her mind; this intrigued him. Rhonwyn studied him for a moment and said, “You wished to ask me something?”
Elphin nodded. “As you are a woman who appreciates simple speech, I will speak simply. Three days ago on the eve of Beltane, I found a babe in my father’s salmon weir. I came thinking to ask you to be nurse to the child. That was my intention.”
“Was? Have you changed your mind then?”
“I have.”
Rhonwyn bent her head and put her face in her hands. “What people say about me… I do not deny it; indeed, I cannot-it is true.”
This response mystified Elphin. “I know nothing of what men say about you, and care less. But I know what I have seen with my own eyes.”
Rhonwyn kept her eyes downcast but lowered her hands to her lap. “You need not explain.”
“Yet, I will explain. You are speaking to one who has suffered long because my kinsmen Believed me accursed. Evil fortune has followed me all the days of my life until now.”
Rhonwyn sniffed and raised her head. “I will not Believe it. Your kinsmen must be the dullest men in the world.”
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