Iorweth, Powys’s chief Druid, announced the moment when he was certain that the last rays of the dying sun had vanished into the far Irish Sea, and then the guests of honour took their places on the dais. The rest of us were already seated on the hall’s floor where men were calling for more of Powys’s famously strong mead that had been specially brewed for this night. Cheers and applause greeted the honoured guests.
Queen Elaine came first. Lancelot’s mother was dressed in blue with a gold torque at her throat and a golden chain binding the coils of her grey hair. A huge roar welcomed Cuneglas and Queen Helledd next. The King’s round face beamed with pleasure at the prospect of this night’s celebration in honour of which he had tied small white ribbons to his dangling moustaches. Arthur came in sober black, while Guinevere, following him to the dais, was splendid in her gown of pale gold linen. It was cut and stitched cunningly so that the precious fabric, skilfully dyed with soot and hive-gum, seemed to cling to her tall, straight body. Her belly barely betrayed her pregnancy and a murmur of appreciation for her beauty sounded among the watching men. Small gold scales had been sewn into the gown’s cloth so that her body appeared to glint as she slowly followed Arthur to the centre of the dais. She smiled at the lust she knew she had provoked, and that she wanted to provoke, for this night Guinevere was determined to outshine whatever Ceinwyn wore. A circlet of gold held Guinevere’s unruly red hair in place, a belt of golden chain links was looped around her waist, while in honour of Lancelot she wore at her neck a golden brooch depicting a sea-eagle. She kissed Queen Elaine on both cheeks, kissed Cuneglas on one, bobbed her head to Queen Helledd, then sat at Cuneglas’s right hand while Arthur slipped into the empty chair beside Helledd.
Two seats remained, but before either was filled Cuneglas stood and rapped the table with his fist. Silence fell, and in the silence Cuneglas mutely gestured towards the treasures that were arrayed on the edge of the dais in front of the linen hanging from the table.
The treasures were the gifts Lancelot had brought for Ceinwyn and their magnificence caused a storm of acclamation in the hall. We had all inspected the gifts and I had listened sourly as men extolled the King of Benoic’s generosity. There were torques of gold, torques of silver and torques made of a mixture of gold and silver, so many torques that they merely served as the foundation on which the greater gifts were piled. There were Roman hand mirrors, flasks of Roman glass and piles of Roman jewels. There were necklaces, brooches, ewers, pins and clasps. There was a king’s ransom in glittering metal, in enamel, coral and precious gems and all of it, I knew, had been rescued from burning Ynys Trebes when Lancelot, disdaining to carry his sword against the rampaging Franks, had fled on the first ship to escape the city’s slaughter.
The applause for the gifts was still sounding when Lancelot arrived in his glory. Like Arthur he was dressed in black, but Lancelot’s black clothes were hemmed by strips of rare gold cloth. His black hair had been oiled and sleeked back so that it lay close to his narrow skull and flat against his back. The fingers of his right hand glittered with rings of gold while his left was dull with warrior rings, none of which, I sourly assumed, he had earned in battle. Around his neck he wore a heavy gold torque with finials glinting with bright stones, and on his breast, in Ceinwyn’s honour, he wore her royal family’s symbol of the spread-winged eagle. He wore no weapons, for no man was allowed to bring a blade into a King’s hall, but he wore the enamelled sword belt that had been a gift from Arthur. He acknowledged the cheers with a raised hand, kissed his mother on the cheek, kissed Guinevere on the hand, bowed to Helledd, then sat.
The one chair remained empty. A harpist had begun to play, her plangent notes scarcely audible above the buzz of talk. The smell of roasting meat wafted into the hall, where slave girls carried round the jugs of mead. Iorweth the Druid bustled up and down the hall making a corridor between the men seated on the rush-strewn floor. He pushed men aside, bowed to the King when the corridor was made, then gestured with his staff for silence.
A great cheer erupted from the crowd outside.
The guests of honour had entered the hall from the rear, stepping straight from the night’s shadows onto the dais, but Ceinwyn would make her entrance through the large door at the front of the hall and to reach that door she had to walk through the throng of guests waiting in the tire-lit compound. The cheer we heard was the sound of those guests applauding her progress from the women’s hall, while inside the King’s hall we waited for her in expectant silence. Even the harpist lifted her ringers from the strings to watch the door.
A child entered first. It was a small girl dressed in white linen who walked backwards up the aisle made by Iorweth for Ceinwyn’s passage. The child strewed dried petals of spring flowers on the newly laid rushes. No one spoke. Every eye was fixed on the door except for mine, for I was watching the dais. Lancelot gazed at the door, a half smile on his face. Cuneglas kept cuffing tears from his eyes, so great was his happiness. Arthur, the maker of peace, beamed. Guinevere alone was not smiling. She just looked triumphant. She had once been scorned in this hall and now she was disposing of its daughter in marriage.
I watched Guinevere as, with my right hand, I took the bone from my pouch. The rib felt smooth in my grasp and Issa, standing behind me with my shield, must have wondered what significance that piece of kitchen waste carried in this moon-bright night of gold and fire.
I looked at the hall’s great door just as Ceinwyn appeared and, in the instant before the cheers began in the hall, there was a gasp of astonishment. Not all the gold in Britain, not all the Queens of old, could have outshone Ceinwyn that night. I did not even need to look at Guinevere to know that she had been utterly outwitted on this night of beauty.
This, I knew, was Ceinwyn’s fourth betrothal feast. She had come here once for Arthur, but he had broken that oath under the spell of Guinevere’s love, and afterwards Ceinwyn had been betrothed to a Prince from distant Rheged, but he had died of a fever before they could marry; then, not long ago, she had carried the betrothal halter to Gundleus of Siluria, but he had died screaming under Nimue’s cruel hands, and now, for the fourth time, Ceinwyn carried the halter to a man. Lancelot had given her a hoard of gold, but custom demanded that she return to him the gift of a common ox halter as a symbol that from this day on she would submit to his authority.
Lancelot stood as she entered and the half smile spread into a look of joy, and no wonder, for her beauty was dazzling. At her other betrothals, as befitted a Princess, Ceinwyn had come in jewels and silver, in gold and finery, but this night she wore only a simple bone-white gown that was belted with a pale blue cord that hung by the dress’s simple skirt to end in tassels. No silver decked her hair, no gold showed at her throat, she wore no precious jewels anywhere, just the linen dress and, about her pale blonde hair, a delicate blue wreath made from the last dog-violets of summer. She wore no shoes, but stepped barefoot among the petals. She displayed no sign of royalty or any symbol of wealth, but had just come to the hall dressed as simply as any peasant girl, and it was a triumph. No wonder men gasped, and no wonder they cheered as she paced slow and shy-between the guests. Cuneglas was weeping for happiness, Arthur led the applause, Lancelot smoothed his oiled hair and his mother beamed her approval. For a moment Guinevere’s face was unreadable, but then she smiled, and it was a smile of pure triumph. She might have been outshone by Ceinwyn’s beauty, but this night was still Guinevere’s night and she was seeing her old rival being consigned to a marriage of her own devising. I saw that smirk of triumph on Guinevere’s face and maybe it was her gloating satisfaction that made up my mind. Or maybe it was my hatred for Lancelot, or my love for Ceinwyn, or maybe Merlin was right and the Gods do love chaos for, in a sudden surge of anger, I gripped the bone in both my hands. I did not think of the consequences of Merlin’s magic, of his hatred for the Christians or the risk that we would all die pursuing the Cauldron in Diwrnach’s realm. I did not think of Arthur’s careful order, I was only aware t
hat Ceinwyn was being given to a man I hated. I, like the other guests on the floor, was standing and watching Ceinwyn between the heads of the warriors. She had reached the great central oak pillar of the high hall where she was surrounded and besieged by the wolfish din of cheers and whistles. I alone was silent on the floor. I watched her and I placed my two thumbs at the centre of the rib and gripped its ends between my fists. Now, Merlin, I thought, now, you old rogue, let me see your magic now.
I snapped the rib. The noise of its splintering was lost among the cheers. I pushed the rib’s broken halves into the pouch, and I swear my heart was hardly beating as I watched the Princess of Powys who had stepped from the night with flowers in her hair. And who now suddenly stopped. Just beside the pillar hung with berries and leaves, she stopped. From the moment Ceinwyn had entered the hall she had kept her eyes on Lancelot and they were on him still and a smile was still on her face, but she stopped and her sudden stillness caused a slow puzzled silence to fall across the hall. The child scattering petals frowned and looked about for guidance. Ceinwyn did not move.
Arthur, smiling still, must have thought she had been overcome by nerves for he beckoned her encouragingly. The halter in her hands trembled. The harpist struck one uncertain chord, then lifted her fingers from the strings, and as her notes died away in the silence I saw a black-cloaked figure come from the crowd beyond the pillar.
It was Nimue, her one gold eye reflecting the flames in the puzzled hall. Ceinwyn looked from Lancelot to Nimue and then, very slowly, she held out a white-sleeved arm. Nimue took her hand and looked into the Princess’s eyes with a quizzical expression. Ceinwyn paused for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod of consent. Suddenly the hall was urgent with talk as Ceinwyn turned away from the dais and, following Nimue’s lead, plunged into the crowd. The talk died away for no one could find any explanation for what was now happening. Lancelot, left standing on the dais, could only watch. Arthur’s mouth had dropped open while Cuneglas, half risen from his seat, stared incredulously as his sister threaded the crowd that edged aside from Nimue’s fierce, scarred and derisive face. Guinevere looked ready to kill.
Then Nimue caught my eye and smiled and I felt my heart beating like a trapped wild thing. Then Ceinwyn smiled at me and I had no eyes for Nimue, only for Ceinwyn, sweet Ceinwyn, who was carrying the ox halter through the crowd of men towards my place in the hall. The warriors edged aside, but I seemed made of stone, unable to move or to speak as Ceinwyn, with tears in her eyes, came to where I stood. She said nothing, but just held the halter in offering to me. A babble of astonishment brewed all around us, but I ignored the voices. Instead I fell to my knees and took the halter, then I seized Ceinwyn’s hands and pressed them against my face that, like hers, was wet with tears. The hall was erupting in anger, in protest and amazement, but Issa stood over me with his shield raised. No man carried an edged weapon into a king’s hall, but Issa was holding the shield with its five-pointed star as though he would beat down any man who challenged the astonishing moment. Nimue, on my other side, was hissing curses into the hall, daring any man to challenge the Princess’s choice.
Ceinwyn knelt so that her face was close to mine. ‘You swore an oath. Lord,’ she whispered, ‘to protect me.’
‘I did, Lady.’
‘I release you from the oath if that is your wish.’
‘Never,’ I promised.
She pulled away slightly. ‘I will marry no man, Derfel,’ she warned me softly, her eyes on mine. ‘I will give you everything but marriage.’
‘Then you give me everything I could ever want, Lady,’ I said, my throat full and my eyes blurred with tears of happiness. I smiled and gave her back the halter. ‘Yours,’ I said. She smiled at that gesture, then dropped the halter into the straw and kissed me softly on the cheek. ‘I think,’ she whispered mischievously in my ear, ‘that this feast will go better without us.’ Then we both stood and, hand in hand, and ignoring the questions and protests and even some cheers, we walked into the moonlit night. Behind us was confusion and anger, and in front of us was a crowd of puzzled people through whom we walked side by side. ‘The house beneath Dolforwyn,’ Ceinwyn said, ‘is waiting for us.’
‘The house with the apple trees?’ I asked, remembering her telling me about the little house that she had dreamed of as a child.
‘That house,’ she said. We had left the crowd gathered about the hall doors and were walking towards Caer Sws’s torchlit gate. Issa had rejoined me after retrieving our swords and spears, and Nimue was at Ceinwyn’s other side. Three of Ceinwyn’s servants were hurrying to join us, as were a score of my men. ‘Are you certain of this?’ I asked Ceinwyn as though, somehow, she could turn back the last few minutes and restore the halter to Lancelot.
‘I am more certain,’ Ceinwyn said calmly, ‘than of anything I ever did before.’ She gave me an amused glance. ‘Did you ever doubt me, Derfel?’
‘I doubted myself,’ I said.
She squeezed my hand. ‘I am no man’s woman,’ she said, ‘only my own,’ and then she laughed with pure delight, let go of my hand and broke into a run. Violets fell from her hair as she ran for sheer joy across the grass. I ran after her, while behind us, from the astonished hall’s doorway, Arthur called for us to come back.
But we ran on. To chaos.
* * *
Next day I took a sharp knife and trimmed the snapped ends of the two bone fragments, and then, working very carefully, I made two long narrow troughs in Hywelbane’s wooden handgrips. Issa walked to Caer Sws and fetched back some glue that we heated over the fire and, once we were sure that the two troughs exactly matched the shape of the bone fragments, we coated the troughs with the glue, then pushed the two scraps into the sword’s hilt. We wiped off the excess glue, then bound the strips with bands of sinew to set them firmly into the wood. ‘It looks like ivory,’ Issa said admiringly when the job was done.
* * *
‘Strips of pig bone,’ I said dismissively, though in fact the two scraps did look like ivory and gave Hywelbane a rich appearance. The sword was named for its first owner, Merlin’s steward Hywel, who had taught me my weapons.
‘But the bones are magic?’ Issa asked me anxiously.
‘Merlin’s magic,’ I said, but I did not explain any further.
Cavan came to me at midday. He knelt on the grass and bowed his head, but he did not speak, nor did he need to speak for I knew why he had come. ‘You are free to go, Cavan,’ I told him. ‘I release you from your oath.’ He looked up at me, but the business of being freed of an oath was too heavy for him to say anything, so I smiled. ‘You’re not a young man, Cavan,’ I said, ‘and you deserve a lord who will offer you gold and comfort instead of a Dark Road and uncertainty.’
‘I have a mind. Lord,’ he found his voice at last, ‘to die in Ireland.’
‘To be with your people?’
‘Yes, Lord. But I cannot go back a poor man. I need gold.’
‘Then burn your throwboard,’ I advised him.
He grinned at that, then kissed Hywelbane’s hilt. ‘No resentment. Lord?’ he asked me anxiously.
‘No,’ I said, ‘and if you ever need my help, send word.’
He stood and embraced me. He would go back to Arthur’s service and take with him half my men, for only twenty stayed with me. The others feared Diwrnach, or else were too eager to find riches, and I could not blame them. They had earned honour, warrior rings and wolf-tails in my service, but little gold. I gave them permission to keep the wolf-tails on their helmets, for those they had earned in the terrible fights in Benoic, but I made them paint out the newly made stars on their shields. The stars were for the twenty men who stayed with me, and those twenty were the youngest, the strongest and the most adventurous of my spearmen and, the Gods know, they needed to be, for by snapping the bone I had committed them to the Dark Road.
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