by Carol Browne
She released his hands and took a long breath while Godwin watched her, confused and uncertain, impatience gnawing at his guts. He tried to keep still and hugged his chest, seeking to hold down the sense of panic that told him he was going to hear something astounding. Something unbearable.
“Many years ago,” said Morvyth, “while our father was still alive, Gwion went out one day alone, searching the land for allies. He travelled west and found a great forest beyond the hills. Hearing the cries of a child in distress, he urged his pony in her direction. He found a little elf-child who had fallen into a ditch and broken her tiny foot. She was fearful of the warlord, but he soothed her and bound her injury. The elf was afraid to go home in case she was scolded for wandering off on her own, so Gwion lifted her onto his pony and offered to take her there and ask her elders to be lenient.
“He entered the dark forest, and the elves soon spotted him. A party came out to meet him with the elf-queen at their head. Gwion asked pardon for trespassing and that the child be spared from punishment, for she was so tiny and had been hurt. Admiring his courage and compassion, the elf-queen thanked him for what he had done and promised she would send him a gift to repay him for all his trouble. For indeed, you see, the child he had rescued was the elf-queen’s very own daughter.
“So, Gwion returned to his Ethne, and two days after his homecoming, their son, Aidan, was born.
“Some days later, a stranger arrived. A handsome elf in gold and white came riding into our village. He would not dismount and said he would only speak to Gwion. When Gwion appeared, the elf held out to him an object wrapped in gold-coloured cloth. ‘We know of your joy, my lord,’ said the elf, ‘and my lady, the queen, has sent you this gift to reward you for your kindness. It is for your son. It will protect him always, and it is his alone, for by the magic employed in its making, it can never leave him, save by his express command. Likewise, it was forged in such a way that it will never injure him, regardless of who wields it.’
“Gwion thanked the elf, but the messenger’s errand was not yet complete,” Morvyth went on, “and he said to Gwion, ‘In accordance with custom, it has a name peculiar to itself by which its magic is awakened. Awakened for as long as is necessary to serve and protect its master.’
“The messenger beckoned Gwion closer and whispered so that no one else should hear. Then he sat up straight and said, ‘My lady the queen also undertakes to welcome your son as her own, should he ever lack for home, help, or kin. He need only ask for her protection, and it shall be his.’ Gwion asked the elf to thank his queen, and the elf rode away.
“Gwion unwrapped the elf-queen’s gift, and we gathered round to see it. It was a fine sword, with strange runes on the hilt. An elf-sword, Godwin . . . yours!”
The very foundations of Godwin’s being seemed to crumble inside him. A weird, aching numbness filled his body, and the room began to sway around him. He leaned against the bed, digging his fingers into the coverlet.
“Aidan, you have returned. Gwion knew you would,” cried Morvyth. “Ah, had you but reached us sooner, you would have heard these things from your sire. A cruel, cruel destiny to keep flesh and blood apart so long and then cheat them at the last.
“Gwion knew. He knew you would return to us. Oh, Aidan, dear nephew, he never forgot his firstborn son! He called to you on his deathbed. There were many things your father wanted to tell you—the most important of all, how much he loved you.”
Godwin tried to get to his feet, but she gripped his arm and held him fast with a strength that belied her frailty.
“He intended to tell you about the sword when you were man enough to use it. Ah, Gwion. A champion of our race. And you, his son, a warrior, will lead us out of darkness!”
“No, I can’t!” he protested.
“Yes, yes! This sword has power,” she said. “Can you not feel it, Aidan? It is a power for good. For good! This is the sword you carried when they took you away from us. I remember. I remember only too well. They could not take it from you . . . it would not let them take it. Forged never to leave you, it exerted its power over them. To take the sword away from you, they would have had to take your life.”
“No! I was never so brave, and they were never so cruel! And they did take my life, don’t you see?” The tears rolled freely down his face, and he struggled in her grasp. “Morvyth, by Frigg! Please let me go.”
“You defend them,” she said, “but perhaps you are right. Your father, despite his grief at your loss, told me all things have a purpose, so there might be a purpose in your abduction. It was an old custom among our race to foster our children with others. In this way, we thought to enlarge their minds, teach them things we could not, and widen their skills and experience. Perhaps you have learned many things with the Saxons?”
He shook his head in despair.
“Now you will lead us, Aidan,” she said.
“No, Lady Morvyth, I can’t.”
She didn’t, wouldn’t hear him. “Here, take this.” She fumbled to unclasp a thin chain at her neck. It carried a silver ring on which was a tiny red dragon, fashioned from chips of garnet. Unable to undo the fastening, she broke the chain, drawing blood from her flesh. She thrust it into his hand. “This is the symbol of our race. It was your father’s ring. Wear it, Aidan. Put it on!”
He took the ring, and Morvyth lay back upon the pillow with a sigh of spent emotion, but then she frowned.
“But Aidan, the sword. Without its name, it cannot be awakened, and I do not know it. I do not know it!” Her eyes flashed panic at him. “Only Gwion knew its name, and he took it to the grave!”
Godwin returned the sword to its scabbard. “Morvyth, listen, I know the name.”
She gaped at him.
“I know it, Morvyth. Be at peace.”
Tormented by her infirmity, Morvyth sobbed and moaned, and her body was seized by spasms. Godwin placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her.
“Gwion!” she cried out. “Brother! Your son has returned! Do you see?”
“Morvyth, you should rest.”
“No, I must have my fill of you, my Aidan. Home at last!” She sobbed, as though her heart would break. “And now, at least I can die happy. Angwen! Angwen!”
Her eyes became glazed. Godwin stepped back, shaking with the shock of what had been revealed, and then a sudden realisation hit him.
Angwen!
He made for the door and flung it open. A rush of daylight dazzled him, and some moments passed before he saw that someone was at his side.
“Godwin, what’s wrong?”
His sister reached out and touched his arm.
“She needs you,” he said.
He blundered past her and ran through the village to the hut where Grimalkin stood tethered. She lifted her ungainly head, tufts of hay jutting from her mouth. He had no intention of giving her any opportunity to vent her spleen, so he hid himself behind the hut and sank to his knees.
So, these were his people, the once proud Gododdin. And Gwion had been his father. If only he had come sooner. Just one short week in a lifetime of loss before he found the Lorestone. His father had called to him on his deathbed. He alone had occupied his father’s last thoughts on Earth. But Godwin would never hear from his lips how much his father loved him.
He hugged his chest, his heart aching. This couldn’t be happening, could it? Could destiny really be so cruel? Had all of his dreams been leading to this? His sister, his uncle and, worse, his own mother, murdered by Othere’s men. Perhaps by Othere himself. Taranuil, an elf-sword. And Angwen . . .
His father had been a warrior, had led men into battle. He had called to his son, and his son was a slave and a coward. His son was a man who deserted his children, a man who felt lust for his own sister.
He took a deep breath to quell a rush of nausea, and then he clambered to his feet and staggered away, supporting himself on the wall of the hut. He needed some dark and secret place in which to hide his anguish, but as h
e rounded the corner of the hut, a large shape blocked his path.
“Gall and wormwood, Brit!” it said. “What did that old hag do to you?”
He gave the pony an outraged look. “By Frigg, leave me alone! I don’t need you, not now!” He put his hands on her flank and pushed. “Damn you, get out of the way!”
“Not till you tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
“Grim take you!” He leaned against her body and drew a shuddering breath.
“It seems these scum have offended you.”
He glared at her in amazement. “You dare to insult my race!”
“How often have you insulted mine and thought nothing of it?” she asked.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
“Then make me.”
“Grimalkin, these people . . . They’re my people! The tribe I was taken from by the Saxons!”
“Ah.”
“It’s taken me over a score of years to find out who I am.”
“Cabbage hearts! Are you really that old?”
He intended to rail at her, but in her eyes was a gentle humour he had never seen there before. Was she actually trying to cheer him up? He relaxed a little and steadied himself. “To be fair, I should thank you,” he said, “for that rumpus you caused earlier.”
“Really, Brit? Why’s that?”
“You stopped me from making a dreadful mistake. I was about to . . . I was falling in love with my sister.” The confession stung his throat.
“That’s bad, is it?” she asked.
“Grimalkin, in the name of Frigg!”
“Sorry, Brit. Different standards, you know.”
He tried to relinquish Grimalkin’s support, but he was trembling all over. The pressure of his anger and grief was threatening to tear him into pieces.
The pony’s large head shook from side to side. “You’re having a rotten time, aren’t you? Wonder how our elf-queen’s doing?”
Elgiva! His shame deepened at the realisation that he had forgotten her so easily. “Oh, Frigg, I forgot all about her!”
“Hardly surprising,” said Grimalkin. “She’ll be all right, though. She’s got magic.”
Godwin grimaced. “Oddly, so have I,” he said. “My sword was made by elves.”
“All things return full circle, Brit.”
He curled his fingers into her mane and tried to explain his heartache. “My father, Gwion, he died a week ago, and I was too late.”
“Poor orphan and slave.”
“Grimalkin . . . I can’t bear it!” He threw his arms about her neck and surrendered to his tears.
“That’s right, old son, have a good weep and let it all out. Do you good. Too much on your plate.” She stood unmoving, supporting his weight until he regained his composure.
At length, he mastered himself. “Where’s Trystin?” he asked.
“Little whingebag buggered off. Think he was bored,” she said. “With all the excitement going on, no wonder he feels left out.”
Godwin sighed and scrubbed the tears from his eyes. “I thought I tied you up, you old nag?”
“There isn’t a rope made that these old teeth of mine can’t handle,” she told him.
“Next time, I’ll use a chain. Anyway, I think I’ll go inside and rest.”
“Good idea. It’s starting to rain.”
Godwin glanced at the blackening clouds. “Perhaps I should go and find Elgiva,” he said with a frown. “She was far too weak to go on her own.”
“Have a nap first,” Grimalkin said. “Then everything will be in its proper perspective.”
Whatever that is. He patted her neck and then made to leave.
“I say!” she called, and he glanced back at her. “What is it that is given to you, belongs to you alone, yet is used by your friends more than by you?”
He shrugged.
“Your name!” she said.
“You and your riddles!”
“So,” she snickered, “what is your name, Brit?”
“My name’s Godwin. I don’t know how to be anyone else.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There was a hammering at the door, and someone was calling an unfamiliar name. Godwin turned over on the bed and huddled against the wall, but the annoying noise persisted. He dragged himself from his rest, stamped towards the door of the hut, and quickly heaved it open. An old man stood on the threshold. Rain pattered on the hood of his cloak, and thunder cracked in the late afternoon sky behind him. Godwin stared, fuzzy with sleep.
“Aidan,” said the old man, “there are things we need to discuss.”
“Oh, for Frigg’s sake, leave me alone,” said Godwin.
“Aidan, this cannot wait.”
“My name is Godwin, old man.”
The elder tutted with exasperation. “Godwin, then . . . Please, will you come? The elders are waiting to speak to you.”
“What if I don’t want to speak to them?”
The elder sighed, but said nothing, and Godwin shrugged. “Oh, very well.”
The man set off across the village, and Godwin trudged in his wake. Soon, they reached a large wooden structure, open on all sides, like a barn no one had cared to complete. It sheltered a roaring fire, and around the blaze, the elders sat, cross-legged and solemn-faced, waiting in silence for them to arrive. A gathering breeze lifted sparks from the fire, and they floated like motes of gold-dust above the elders’ heads.
The old man took his place with his peers and beckoned Godwin to join them, but Godwin stood outside their circle, his arms folded. Evidently embarrassed by his aloofness, the elders regarded each other, as if none was prepared to speak first. Another roll of thunder drummed across the sky.
While Godwin waited with growing impatience, the sound of hoofbeats plodded towards him, and Grimalkin sidled up. Moving into the shelter, she took her place beside him, rain steaming off her hide.
“That nag seems to follow you everywhere, brother,” said a soft, sly voice from the circle of elders. “Indeed, you seem to prefer a dumb beast to the company of your own people.”
Aled sat smirking in his direction with provocation flashing in his eyes, but Godwin merely frowned at the youth, refusing to be baited. Beside the youth sat Ceara, scowling and stiff with contempt.
“Aidan,” said one of the elders, “I am Llewellyn, the oldest here. I welcome you to your long-lost tribe on behalf of us all. We have heard the news from Angwen. As eldest and strongest surviving child of our late chief, Gwion, you will be chief when Morvyth dies. We acknowledge this as your right.”
The elders waited for Godwin’s response, but he had no words. He felt confused and giddy and placed his hand on Grimalkin’s withers, trying to hold himself steady. At least he would show them no weakness.
“You’ve all been against me from the start,” he said, “and I don’t see why I should talk to you.”
“Circumstances have changed,” said Llewellyn. “Morvyth believes that you are truly Aidan, and you bear the elf-sword.”
“That is no proof!” cried Aled. “He could have stolen it!”
“Peace, Aled!” said Llewellyn. “That accusation is unjust.”
“I am the son of Gwion, and I will say what I choose,” said Aled. “And I say this man is a heathen, raised by the barbarians who took our land. How is he acceptable? He is a stranger who travels with elves. He knows nothing of how we have suffered—”
“Fit or no, his claim is just,” said Llewellyn.
“I will have proof!” cried Aled.
Godwin didn’t want to participate, yet he knew he must before his future was decided for him. “You are my tribe, and I acknowledge the right of the elders to choose who will be chief. However—” he pointed a finger at Aled, “—I do not acknowledge him. He has no place among the wise and should be with the children of the tribe.”
Aled jumped up, his face dark with rage. “I am Chief Gwion’s son! I have a right to be here!”
“Calm yourself,” admonished
Llewellyn. “Aidan, you too are unjust. It is not fitting that brothers should quarrel. Let us sit down and talk peaceably.”
With a grimace, Aled reseated himself, and Godwin joined the elders sitting round the fire. He forced himself to concentrate, but he wanted to be alone, to untangle the skein of his thoughts. And one thought dominated over the rest: what had become of Elgiva? Her absence gnawed at him like panic. He glanced across the village at the gathering dusk. Even if he searched for her now, he would never find her in the darkness.
“So, Aidan, you are the tanist,” said Llewellyn, “and you will lead us when Morvyth dies.”
“But is he warrior enough to lead us?” said Ceara. “Aled requires proof of who he is, but I would like proof of his mettle.”
“And how can we be sure his allegiance is not with the Saxons?” said Aled. “They might have sent him to search out his race and help his masters to destroy it!”
“Aled speaks wisely,” Ceara said. “We cannot trust a man such as he.” She jerked her chin in Godwin’s direction. “Not only is he a heathen, he consorts with a demon in animal form!”
Godwin almost laughed out loud. In the capering shadows beyond the fire, equine expletives singed the air.
“This is ridiculous,” said Godwin. “I won’t waste breath arguing with you, but I will give you proof of my identity, and then, by Frigg, you can take it or leave it.” He got to his feet, unsheathed Taranuil, and brandished it like a reproof. “I suppose you all know the history of this blade?”
“Indeed,” said Llewellyn. “Its origins are well known to all the elders. It was the birth-gift of an elvish queen.”
“It was more than that,” said an old man beside him. “It was a token of friendship between our people and theirs.”
“Yes,” said Godwin, “and you know this sword has a name that awakens its power, and only Gwion knew that name. But I, as the sword’s rightful owner, have learnt the name . . . ” He hesitated and then cast all caution aside. “I learnt by the grace of good magic, which spoke to me through this very blade. This sword was forged for Aidan, son of Gwion, alone, and it is forbidden to do him harm. If you need proof that I am he, I am happy to provide it.”
