Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  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 boar 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 Taliesin, 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 norimst. 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."

  Calpurnius gave a shriek and scurried away, dragging his boy with him. Pendaran watched them go and then faced Taliesin, eyeing him with new respect. "That fool of a priest may have forgotten what he was about, but I have not. Sing, beggar, if you value that tongue of yours."

  Taliesin strummed his harp again and every eye was on him. At first it seemed as if his voice would be swallowed in the cold emptiness of the hall. But Taliesin's voice grew to fill the hall with living sound.

  He sang a song about a king whose three sons had been turned into horses as the result of a curse laid on him by a rival king whose wife he had stolen. As the story spun out verse by verse, the listeners were drawn in and held spellbound by the magic of Taliesin's tale of treachery and doom.

  His fingers moved over the strings of the harp, weaving melodies within melodies, while his voice rang with music so piercingly beautiful that many gathered there could only stare in astonishment, believing themselves in the presence of an Otherworld visitor. Charis watched hostility and pride melt before Taliesin's peerless art.

  When he finished, not a sound could be heard; no one in the hall said a word, and even the world outside the hall was hushed and silent. Lord Pendaran Gleddyvrudd sat in his painted chair, clutching his sword and staring wide-eyed as if at a vision that would disappear the moment he twitched a muscle.

  Then, slowly, he raised himself up and walked to Taliesin. Without a word he moved a hand to his arm, removed one of his armbands—chased gold in the shape of a boar's head with curved tusks of silver—and taking Taliesin by the arm he slipped the heavy ornament on. Then he took another one and put that one on the singer as well. Lastly he reached to his neck, removed his golden torc, and presented it to Taliesin.

  Taliesin, his face bright with the fever of his gift, took the torc in his hands, held it up, and then replaced it around the king's neck. "I am your servant, Lord Pendaran."

  Old Pendaran shook his head. "No, no," he said, his voice cracking with awe, "you are the master of any man within sound of your voice. I stand ashamed and unworthy before you, but I am your servant and happy to be so as long as you wish to stay."

  The Demetae king then showed his true nobility by filling his own horn with wine and giving it to Taliesin. He held it before the singer and said in a loud voice, "Know by this that I esteem Taliesin above all men in this hall. He shall reside here as bard to me and you will receive and honor him as your master, for such he is."

  He took off one of his thick gold rings and placed it on Taliesin's finger and embraced Taliesin as a father embraces a son. The lord's chiefs came up next, and each pulled off armbands of silver or gold and placed them on Taliesin's arms. One young man, Pendaran's oldest son, wrapped a gold chain around Taliesin's neck and knelt before him.

  Taliesin put his hand on the young man's head and said, "Arise Maelwys—I recognize you."

  The young man stood slowly. "You flatter me, lord, but my name is not Maelwys—it is Eiddon Vawr Vrylic."

  "Eiddon the Generous it is today perhaps," replied Taliesin, "but one day all men will call you Maelwys, Most Noble."

  The young man du
cked his head and hurried away before anyone could notice the color rising to his cheeks. Then Pendaran ordered the trestles to be brought and the board laid. A chair of honor was produced for Taliesin and one for Charis and they sat down to a bountiful meal.

  Later, when they were alone in the chamber Pendaran had given them for their own—a small but finely furnished apartment above the hall—Charis told Taliesin of her fright when he had faced Calpurnius. "You took a terrible chance, my love," she said. "He might have cut out your tongue."

  Taliesin only smiled at this and said, "How so? Is not our Living God greater than his mute thing of stone?"

  Charis wondered at Taliesin's faith in the Savior God and would have talked with him more, but Taliesin yawned and stretched himself out on the high bed. His eyes closed and soon he was asleep. Charis pulled a woolen covering over him and sat watching him sleep for a while before laying down beside him. "Rest well," she said, brushing his temple with her lips, "and may our God grant us peace in this house."

  FIFTEEN

  MARIDUNUM LAY IN THE HEART OF A LAND OF BROAD HILLS and fertile valleys laced through with meandering rivers and fresh-running streams. Dyfed was, Charis found, very like Ynys Witrin, although not as wild, for the region had been settled and worked for many generations. Most of the landholders spoke a homey Latin, as well as Briton, and considered themselves Roman in matters of culture and civility.

  The fields around Maridunum grew wheat, barley, and rye, and supported good herds of livestock which, supplemented by the harvest of the nearby sea, kept the larders of lord and liegeman alike well-stocked.

  Pendaran Gleddyvrudd soon proved himself an amiable and generous host, most anxious to please his guests—all the more since he felt badly that he had disgraced himself and brought dishonor to his name by his rudeness and arrogance. "I am a hard man," he told Taliesin and Charis a day or so after their first meeting, "living in hard times. I have forgotten much that I formerly held close to my heart. Please forgive a stupid and foolish man."

  "The man is neither stupid or foolish who sees himself ailing and seeks a remedy," Taliesin told him.

  "I do more. May health and wealth desert me if I show myself empty-handed to a stranger under my roof henceforth." He gazed at Taliesin and shook his head sadly. "To think I delighted in being deceived by that meal bag of a priest, Calpurnius. I was indeed bewitted or I would have recognized you, Taliesin. But hearing you sing…" Pendaran's voice trailed off.

  Then the Demetae king shook himself and said, "Even so, I have thrown that rancorous flamen onto his god's generosity."

  "You did not kill him—" protested Charis sharply.

  "Worse!" chuckled Pendaran. "Oh, much worse—I sent him away. Now he will have to live by his wits, and a sorry living it will be!" His smile faded and again the king shook his head slowly. "I do not see how I could have been so blind. But," he said, squaring himself, "I will make amends; I will repay tenfold what I have withheld through meanness and neglect."

  From that day Pendaran of the Red Sword made good his word, and his house became a more pleasant place. So pleasant, in fact, that Charis felt slightly guilty for not missing Ynys Witrin and her people more. But the truth was that through Taliesin she had begun to see a world unknown to her before, a world filled with astonishing beauty in even its most unpromising corners, a world greater, finer, and more noble than she had known and peopled by men and creatures marvelous to behold.

  It was partly because of her growing love for Taliesin that she saw the world this way and partly because just being near him she was able to see it through his eyes. Charis knew she had never been truly alive before coming to Maridunum with Taliesin; all her past seemed slight and unreal—wisps of dreams, imperfect images half-remembered—almost as if it had happened to another Charis, a Charis who had lived in a gray, barren shadowland.

  Every moment of the day she longed to be with Taliesin, and that longing was fulfilled. They rode beneath blue summer skies, they swam in the lakes and visited the settlements and old Roman towns nearby, they sang and laughed and made love. The days passed one by one, each a perfect pearl on a thread of braided gold.

  Within three weeks of their arrival at Maridunum, Charis had a vision that she was carrying a child. The sky was still dark when it came upon her, although the birds in the trees outside their window had assembled and begun chirping in anticipation of the dawn. She had, in her sleep, heard a small cry, such as a baby might make. She awoke to see a woman holding a newborn child and standing beside the bed. At first she thought one of the serving women had entered by mistake, but as she opened her mouth to speak the woman raised her head and she saw it was herself holding the child, and that the babe was her own. The vision faded then and she lay beside Taliesin in bed, luxuriating in her knowledge. There is life inside me, she thought, dizzy with the mystery of it.

  When they rose for the day, however, Charis began to doubt. Perhaps it had been a meaningless dream after all. So she said nothing as they broke their fast with bread and wine; she did not speak of her secret when they took the merlin to a nearby hill to try its wing, nor later when they were together in the bath at the villa.

  But that night, after he finished singing in the hall and they retired to their chamber, Taliesin took her by the shoulders and said, "You might as well tell me what you have been keeping from me all day, for I will not sleep until you do."

  "Why, husband," she said, "do you suggest that I would ever keep anything from you?"

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her, then answered, "The female heart is a world unto itself, incomprehensible to men. Yet I perceive that you have been of a mood today: pensive, contemplative, hesitant, expectant. And you have spent the better part of the day watching me as if you thought I might follow your merlin into the sky and never return."

  Charis pulled a frown. "So you feel trapped, my love. Have you grown weary of me already?"

  "Could a man ever grow weary of paradise?" he asked lightly.

  "Perhaps," allowed Charis, "if paradise were not to his liking."

  "Lady, you speak in riddles. But there is a secret behind your words nevertheless. What is it, I wonder?"

  "Am I so easily found out?" She turned and stepped from his embrace.

  "Then there is a secret."

  "Perhaps."

  He stepped toward her again. "Tell me, my Lady of the Lake; share your secret."

  "It may be nothing," she said.

  "Then it will not be diminished for sharing it." He flopped down on the bed.

  "I think I am carrying a child," Charis said and told him about her vision of the morning before.

  And in the weeks that followed, her body confirmed what her vision had revealed.

  * * *

  Summer strengthened its hold on the land; the rain and sun did their work and the crops grew straight and tall in the fields. With each passing day Charis felt the presence of the life within her and felt the changes in her body as it began preparing itself for the birth of the child that would be. Gradually her breasts and stomach began to swell; she thought often of her mother and wished that Briseis were there to help her in the months to come.

  If that was a sorrowful wish, it was her only unhappiness and it was slight—the rest of life took on deep satisfaction. In the house of Lord Pendaran, whose last wife had died five years before, she came to take the place of queen in the eyes of Pendaran's retainers, all of whom held her in highest esteem, often quarreling among themselves for the opportunity of serving her.

  By day she and Taliesin rode, often taking the merlin with them so that it became accustomed to its saddle perch; or they sat in the courtyard or on a hilltop and talked. By night she sat in the hall at Pendaran's right hand, listening to Taliesin sing. These happy days were the best Charis had ever known and she savored each like a drop of rare and precious wine.

  One morning, after several gray days of wet and wind, Charis said, "Please, Taliesin, let us ride today. We have spent the
last days in the villa and I am restless."

  He appeared about to object but she said, "It will be the last time for many more months, I think." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "The merlin is restless too. Now that his wing is stronger he longs to fly."

  "Very well," Taliesin agreed, "let us give the day to it. We will take the merlin into the heath and begin training it to hunt."

  After breaking fast they rode through Maridunum and into the hills whose steep sides were covered with fern and bracken. They climbed to the crest of a hill and dismounted to gaze upon the shining silver slash of Mor Hafren in the hazy distance to the south, and, to the north, the dark humps of the Black Mountains.

  "Beyond those mountains," said Taliesin turning his eyes toward the pine-covered slopes away to the north, "is my homeland."

  "I have never heard you speak of your former home."

  "Nor have I heard you speak of yours."

  "The first time I heard you sing I knew that we were the same."

  "How so?"

  "We are both exiles, you and I. We live in a world that is not our own."

  Taliesin's smile was quick, but it was also sad. "The world is ours for the making," he said lightly, but he turned back to the mountains and gazed for a long time without speaking.

  When he did speak again, his voice sounded far away. "I have seen a land shining with goodness where each man protects his brother's dignity as readily as his own, where war and want have ceased and all races live under the same law of love and honor.

  "I have seen a land bright with truth, where a man's word is his pledge and falsehood is banished, where children sleep safe in their mothers' arms and never know fear or pain. I have seen a land where kings extend their hands in justice rather than reach for the sword, where mercy, kindness, and compassion flow like deep water over the land, and men revere virtue, revere truth, revere beauty, above comfort, pleasure, or selfish gain. A land where peace reigns in the hearts of men, where faith blazes like a beacon from every hill and love like a fire from every hearth, where the True God is worshiped and his ways acclaimed by all.