Taliesin unsaddled the horse and tethered it, and then set about finding firewood for the night. Charis spread their cloaks on the ground and brought water from the river in the waterskin, and then sat on a moss-grown rock to watch her husband make the fire. When the fire was burning brightly, Taliesin fetched his harp and began to sing, his voice filling the hollow and soaring heavenward.
He sang and twilight seeped into the sky, spreading over the land like a deepening stain. And it seemed to Charis that his music was born of nothing on earth but derived from a source much purer than the world yet knew. When Taliesin sang it was as if the living song, like some rare caged creature, was freed at last to return to its rightful place, a realm beyond the world of men, higher, finer, and more beautiful than men could know. She thought of the subtle sadness in his music, the merest hint of longing, a note of pain so delicate that it blended and deepened the joy without coloring or mating it-as if the act of freeing the song from its earthly prison brought sorrow as well as joy. This heightened rather than diminished the beauty of the music.
The first stars shone brightly as Taliesin’s song faded on the evening breeze; a nightingale took up the melody with its own liquid voice. Taliesin stilled the gently-humming strings and lay aside the harp, saying, “For you, my Lady of the Lake.”
“I could ask no finer gift,” replied Charis dreamily, “than to be allowed to listen to you forever.”
“Then I will sing for you always,” he said and leaned forward and kissed her. “Your kiss will ever be my awen. “ He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close.
Laying a finger to his lips, Charis said, “Stay, my love; I will return in a moment.” She rose and walked to the river just beyond the ring of oaks. Taliesin built up the fire and stretched himself on his cloak to watch the moon rise and the stars appear in the deep folds of the night. After a while he heard Charis humming softly and raised his head.
She came to him then, her simple tunic transformed in the twilight into a fine gown, and her hair, falling loosely about her shoulders, shining in the silver moonglow. She came silently across the soft grass to stand before him. “The only gift I have to give you, my love, is the gift of myself,” she said.
Taliesin reached for her hand and smiled. “Charis, my soul, in you my joy is made complete. I need nothing else.” And then he took her in his arms and they lay together on their cloaks beside the fire under a heaven alight with stars and a new-risen moon shining with a clear, pure light.
They loved each other then, giving themselves fully to the act of loving, consummating their marriage in the joy of shared pleasure: he, giving his warmth and tenderness; she, her strength and intensity; together, igniting a passion that blazed with a high and holy fire.
When nightingales in the trees above voiced their own unearthly songs to a night-dark world, husband and wife wrapped themselves in their cloaks and let sleep overtake them as they lay entwined in one another’s arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Charis and Taliesin journeyed along the river to the place where it emptied itself into the great tidal estuary of Mor Hafren. There, at a small fishing settlement on the mud-slick banks, they bartered for passage across the wide channel to Caer Dydd. It was agreed that for an evening of song and story, Taliesin and Charis would be given food and lodging and taken across the inlet the next morning.
Upon reaching Caer Dydd, Taliesin sang again for food and lodging, and so on along the way-sometimes receiving a bit of gold or silver or a handful of coins in addition to meals and a pallet by the fire. By day they made their way west and north, following the Roman road from Isca to Mar-idunum, receiving each night shelter-often the very best- in exchange for that which Taliesin was happy to provide.
In this way they happily traveled through the wild hills and narrow green valleys of Dyfed, reveling in the warmth of the early summer sun and their love for each other. Taliesin sang as they went, walking with his staff beside the horse, making the hills resound with the echo of his voice. He composed hymns to earth and sky and the Creator God who had made him. He taught Charis the words and melodies, and the two sang in harmony under the wide blue canopy of heaven.
At last they came to Maridunum, arriving on a market day, when the stone-paved streets were aflood with crowds: some with livestock-chickens, sheep, cattle, pigs, oxen, and horses, all squealing and squalling and protesting their abuse; others brought grain, wine, leather, cloth, objects of silver, gold, and bronze, or flat iron ingots for working into tools and weapons.
Taliesin and Charis threaded through the noise and stink and made their way to the holding of the lord of Maridunum, who lived in a villa well away from the town on a hill by the River Towy. His estate consisted of a huge porticoed hall surrounded by long wings. On one side the wings enclosed a formal courtyard and on the other a bath, with kitchens, workrooms and sleeping quarters around it.
Atop a mound a short distance behind the villa was a small square temple, little more than a cell surrounded by a verandah. Black smoke issued from the smokehole in the temple dome.
The villa was very old, and it had been several generations since the descendants of its original owner had lived within its square stone walls; but the place was kept in good order. Although many of its red clay roof tiles had been replaced with slate, and one of its long wings lay in a jumble of stone and timber, the yards were swept clean and the long ramp leading to the entrance boasted a new railing.
“Within is a man who loves order,” remarked Taliesin as he stood in the foreyard inspecting the expansive house. He gave Charis a wink and said, “Let us see if he loves song as much.”
“You have only to sing, my love, and gates open to you, silver coins pour from empty purses, and gold falls into your hands like rain. Why ask whether the lord of this place cares for song? None can resist your harp and you know it well.”
Taliesin laughed and tied the horse to a nearby bush. They started toward the entrance ramp, where they were met by a thin-faced man with narrow shoulders and clipped gray hair. He was dressed in the Roman manner with a long, Belted mantle, although around his neck he wore a bronze tore. He stood flat-footed in the center of the ramp and observed the strangers skeptically. “What do you here?” he asked in a gruff voice.
“I am a bard, Taliesin ap Elphin by name. This is my wife, Charis. We have journeyed from our people in the south with greetings to the lord of this place from one of his kinsmen.”
The man’s narrow eyes calculated the veracity of Taliesin’s tale; then he shrugged and said, “You are free to enter and to wait. Our lord is not here now. He is inspecting his fields and will not return until sunset.”
“Then show us to a water trough, friend,” said Taliesin, “where we may water our horse and wash the dust of the road from our skins.”
“There is a trough down there…” He pointed to the river. And then, taking Charis into account, he added, “Also, we have a bath. You may use it.” He turned at once and walked back into the hall.
After watering the horse and removing its saddle, Taliesin and Charis entered the house. They saw no one about but easily found their way to the bath. The air in the rectangular room was warm and moist and the colored tiles wet.
The bath was square with tall columns around its perimeter. On the floor was a large mosaic of red and white tesserae representing the four seasons as vestal virgins, one at each corner of the bath. Taliesin stripped off his clothes at once and stepped into the warm water. “Ahh!” he sighed. “When I am king, the first thing I will have in my palace is a bath.”
“You said that about the bed!” Charis replied. She removed her tunic but retained her shorter undershift, and slipped into the water at the opposite end of the bath from Taliesin, then swam to him. He met her in the center of the heated pool and embraced her; they swam languidly, allowing the warm water to dissolve the weariness of the road, talking quietly, their voices ringing in the vaulted room.
When they finished, they
went out into the adjoining courtyard and lay down on the wide stone benches there to doze while the sun dried them. Taliesin awakened to Charis’ touch on his skin. He turned over and gazed up at her.
“My beautiful bard,” she said, stroking his chest with her fingertips. “These last days have been a dream-a dream of such happiness that I fear waking. Never leave me, Taliesin.”
“Lady of the Lake, I never will,” he said, cupping a hand to her face above him. They sat for a long time in the silent courtyard, talking low and laughing quietly.
That evening, at sundown, the lord of Maridunum returned with four of his chiefs. They came into the hall from the stables just as Taliesin and Charis entered from the courtyard, and without any announcement the entire house instantly came alive. People appeared as if conjured in full stride, scurrying from room to room, intent on sudden errands; a fire was lit in the great hearth and horns of wine produced. Girls in long, black braids hurried with basins of water to wash the hands and feet of the king and his chieftains, two of whom were his sons.
In the midst of this bustle the steward who had earlier met Taliesin and Charis appeared, followed by two other servants bearing a huge chair, carven and enameled red. The two placed the chair in the center of the hall, and the lord lowered himself regally into it. Other chairs, of meaner craft, were placed nearby for the others and the girls began their task of foot washing.
A dour man with a Belly like a four sack made his way across the floor, accompanied by a sallow-faced young man with a long iron-tipped rod. He walked with such puffed-up dignity that, save for his greasy brown robe, he might have been mistaken for the lord of the house. “The pagan priest from the temple mound and his catamite,” whispered Talie-sin. Charis noted the frankly disapproving look the priest gave them as he passed.
Then the gray-haired steward approached and, bending low, spoke quickly to the lord, who turned his eyes this way and that until he fixed on the two newcomers. The lord replied to the steward, who then came to where Tahesin and Charis were standing and said, “Lord Pendaran wishes to hear you sing. If he likes what he hears, you may stay. If not, you will go.”
“Fair enough,” replied Taliesin. “May I speak to him now?”
“As you choose.” The steward turned to withdraw.
“If you please, friend,” said Taliesin, reaching out to take hold of his sleeve, “do me the kindness of announcing me to your lord.”
Taking Charis by the arm, Taliesin followed the steward to where the lord sat, his bare feet in the lap of a maid laving water over them. “The bard Taliesin wishes to be announced,” said the steward.
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd, king of the Demetae, was a hump-shouldered man who sat on his carven chair with his sword across his knees and a scowl on his long, wrinkled face. He glared unhappily at Taliesin, and only slightly less unhappily at Charis, accepted wine from one of the boys bearing a jar, and grunted.
Taliesin inclined his head toward Pendaran and said, “I am Taliesin, Chief Bard to Elphin ap Gwyddno of Gwynedd.” The boy with the jar poured a cup for Taliesin and handed it to him. Taliesin thanked the boy and raised the wine to his lips, but at that moment Pendaran Gleddyvrudd raised up and knocked the cup from Taliesin’s hand. The cup clattered across the floor and the wine splattered onto the tiles at his feet, wetting his boots and trousers.
“Sing first,” growled Pendaran, and the four behind him convulsed in laughter, slapping their knees and pointing rudely at the singer. A chill of fear tingled in the pit of Charis’ stomach.
“Perhaps,” said Taliesin softly, his voice hard and even, “the name of Elphin means nothing here among the Deme-tae, but I have seen many a stranger made welcome under his roof and given the best place at his table out of simple respect. “
Pendaran scowled even more fiercely. “If our hospitality is not to your liking, beggar, take your trade elsewhere.”
Reaching into his jerkin, Taliesin brought out the letter Dafyd had given him. “I will go elsewhere,” he said offering the scrap of parchment, “but I promised to deliver this to you.”
The king looked at the letter as if it might turn into a snake and bite him if he reached for it. He nodded to his steward, who stepped forward and took the letter from Taliesin, opened it, and began reading aloud in Latin.
“Dafyd is a fool,” announced Lord Pendaran when his steward had finished.
“He spoke highly of you,” replied Taliesin.
Pendaran of the Red Sword snarled, “If you are not going to sing, then you might as well leave now. You are beginning to tax my generosity.”
“A most grievous hardship indeed for one who obviously has so little to spare,” replied Taliesin calmly.
The four chieftains behind the king gasped and fell silent. One of them rose from his seat. Pendaran raised his hand and the man sat down. “Sing, beggar,” he said. “Make it your best or it will surely be your last.”
Taliesin turned to Charis and held out his hands for the harp. “Let us leave,” she whispered tensely. “Please, there are others who will welcome us.”
“I have been asked to sing,” he said. “I feel like making gates swing open and gold shower down upon us.”
Taking the harp, he stepped to the center of the room and began strumming. The first clear notes of his harp were lost amidst the bustle of the hall, but he kept playing. Pendaran kept the scowl firmly affixed to his face and those behind him drank noisily.
When Taliesin opened his mouth to sing, the priest made a movement, stepping forward and striking the rod against the floor. “Lord Pendaran,” he called out, “this man calls himself a bard. I know something of these so-called derwydd holy men. Anyone can play a harp and call himself a bard. Allow me to prove him before he sings.”
The pagan priest came forward, wearing an oily smile. Pendaran Gleddyvrudd grinned maliciously and cocked a gleaming eye at Taliesin. “A point to ponder, Calpurnius,” the lord said, chuckling. “Very well, let him prove himself if he is able. Who knows? Perhaps he will earn a flogging for his impertinence. Either way we will be entertained.”
The priest Calpurnius planted himself before Taliesin. Those in the hall stopped what they were doing to watch this confrontation, and others crowded in to see what would happen. Charis, her hands pressed together, lips drawn tight against teeth, scanned the hall quickly for a clear exit if they should have to make a retreat. She saw that the doorways were now filled with men bearing swords and Loar lances. “Be careful, Taliesin,” she whispered. “Please be careful.”
He gave her a little smile and said, “These men suffer from lack of common courtesy. Worry not-though the cure is painful, it is rarely fatal.” With that he turned and met the priest before Lord Pendaran’s chair.
With a careless smirk the priest said, “Tell us, if you can, the qualities of the nine bodily humors.”
“You take unfair advantage, friend,” replied Taliesin. “Druid wisdom does not embrace such hollow falsehood.”
The pagan priest cackled. “A man deems false what he does not know. I see you are uninformed. But no matter-tell us the proper sacrifice to restore virility in the male and fecundity in the female, and to which god it is made.”
“There is but one true God, and a true bard makes no sacrifice for that which can be cured by simple herbs.”
“Herbs!” the pagan hooted; his sallow-faced companion giggled hysterically. “Oh, come now. You can do better than that. No doubt a true bard would find it easier to sing the malady away.”
“And perhaps,” replied Taliesin coolly, “you would do well to refrain from uttering nonsense in the presence of one at whose feet you should bow in all humility.”
Calpurnius grabbed his Belly and shook with laughter. “Call yourself a bard, call yourself whatever you like, you are a liar all the same.” He turned to his master. “Lord Pendaran,” he said, the forced mirth going out of his voice, “this man is a liar and that is bad enough. Worse, he is a blasphemer!” He pointed an accusing finger at Ta
liesin, who stood calmly unconcerned. “Send him away!”
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd gripped the sword in his lap and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “So you are discovered. You will be flogged and driven out.” He glanced at Charis and licked his lips. “But your lady will stay.”
“If a man can be flogged from your court for speaking the truth,” said Taliesin, “then I think you have listened long enough to this false priest.”
Calpurnius drew himself up and slammed the rod against the stones. “You dare insult me?” He motioned to one of the men behind Pendaran, who rose, drawing his dagger from a sheath at his side. “I will have your tongue, beggar!”
“Not before I have yours, son of lies.” So saying Taliesin looked the priest square in the eye and placed his finger against his lips and made a silly, childish noise: “Blewrm, blewrm, blewrm.” Many of those looking on laughed.
“Silence!” shouted Pendaran.
Calpurnius, his face livid, held out his hand. Pendaran’s man, grinning viciously at Taliesin, placed the dagger in the priest’s upraised palm. He took a step toward Taliesin and opened his mouth to command the bard to be seized. “Hleed ramo felsk!”
Those looking on exchanged puzzled glances. “Hleed ramo felsk!” shouted the pagan priest again. “Mlur, rekka no-rimst. Enob felsk! Enob felsk!”
Pendaran stared in wonder. The priest’s catamite giggled out loud and others laughed behind their hands. “What has happened?” said Lord Pendaran. “Your speech is changed.”
“Norl? Blet dhurmb, emas veamn oglo moop,” replied the priest, beginning to sweat. He looked at Taliesin and his eyes went wide. “Hleed, enob. Felsk enob.”
Those looking on roared with laughter. The priest dropped the dagger and clamped his hand to his mouth in terror. “You may have to learn to speak like a man again,” Taliesin told him. “But at least you still have a tongue to do it, which is more than you would have left me.”
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