Flight of the Hawk
The Second Book in the Storyteller Series
By G R Grove
Copyright 2010 by G R Grove
Discover other titles by G. R. Grove at Smashwords.com
This book is also available in print through most on-line booksellers.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover image by permission of http://www.urweg.com
For further information about the Storyteller series, see http://tregwernin.blogspot.com/
This time, for Rowen
— CONTENTS —
Chapter 3: The King in the Ground
Chapter 7: The Court of Urien Rheged
Chapter 9: The Old Man of the Forest
Chapter 10: The Irishman’s House
Chapter 12: The Rock of Alt Clut
Chapter 15: Gold and Steel and Silver
Chapter 19: The Contention of the Bards
Chapter 20: The King’s Sister’s Wedding
Chapter 23: The Long Straight Track
Chapter 25: Bleiddig’s Hunting
Chapter 26: The Gates of Annwn
Chapter 27: The Might-Have-Been
Chapter 28: The Wind in His Wings
Map of Britain in the mid-6th century.
Prologue: The Storyteller
Blood and fire, gold and steel and poetry, a river’s voice in the silence of the night, and the shining strings of a harp—all these and more I have known in my time. Steep mountains, dark forests, and the endless song of the rain; music and laughter and feasting in the fire-bright halls of kings; a dusty road, and a fast horse, and a good friend beside me; and the sweet taste of the mead of Dun Eidyn, with its bitter aftermath: a dragon’s hoard of memories I have gathered, bright-colored as a long summer’s day. Now they are all gone, the men and women I knew when I was young, gone like words on the wind, and I alone am left here in the twilight to tell you their tale. Sit, then, and listen if you will to the words of Gwernin Kyuarwyd, called Storyteller…
Another Samhain night, another audience. I have never been one to promise what I cannot perform. It was with the words above that I started this tale of my adventures on Samhain night a year ago, and those of you who were with me then got full measure, as I think, and a little over, in my first telling—tales of how in my youth I left my home to be a traveling storyteller, and how I met the great bard Taliesin himself, who had sung for King Arthur, and was sent by him to his own old master Talhaearn to learn the essentials of the bard’s craft. So it was that I came to winter among strangers that year at the Prince Cyndrwyn’s court of Llys-tyn-wynnan in the hills of western Powys, instead of going home to my own people in Pengwern as I had planned. But by the time the wild geese flighting up from the south brought the spring north with them again, many of Cyndrwyn’s folk were no longer strangers to me, nor I to them. Indeed, I was feeling very much at home there, and beginning to put down roots—not something that a bard should ever do!—when fate, in the form of Taliesin, took a hand in my affairs once more, and sent me off a-wandering again. And that is the story I will be telling you tonight.
Chapter 1: The Hawk
It began on a bright spring evening two days before Beltane. The birds were singing passionately in the new-leafed trees; the cattle were lowing in the green fields outside the court; and I and my girl Rhiannedd were seated on a rough wooden bench close by Cyndrwyn’s mead-hall, passing some moments pleasantly enough until it was time to go inside for dinner. I had my arm around her slender waist, and was just about to kiss her, when we were interrupted by the sound of approaching horses.
Into the muddy courtyard there rode three men, and two of them, to my astonishment, were familiar to me. The slight, dark man in the lead, Taliesin Ben Beirdd himself, I would know, I think, at the world’s end—always supposing that he himself wished it!—and his apprentice Neirin mab Dwywei’s dark red hair and lean build were hard to disguise by any light. The third man, a fair-haired youth who rode behind them and led their packhorses, was a stranger to me.
With a startled word to Rhiannedd, I leapt up and ran to meet them. “Taliesin! Neirin! By all the gods, what brings you here?” Then there was confusion and shouting in the courtyard as others ran to greet them or to hold their horses, to carry word to the Prince and make ready his hospitality, or merely to participate in the excitement. In the midst of it all, I found myself face to face with Taliesin himself. “Gwernin!” he said smiling, and reaching out he took me by the shoulders and looked me up and down, his blue eyes sparkling in his dark-bearded face. “Yes, I was right. Being with Talhaearn suits you, I think. And you have grown.”
It was true: I had grown a finger’s breadth over the winter, and was now as tall as he. It seemed very strange, but I had no time to ponder it, for Taliesin had released me to Neirin, who stood beside me grinning, and had turned to greet the Prince and my master Talhaearn. I did not see what passed between them, for Neirin had flung an arm around my shoulders, and was introducing his companion. “Gwernin, this is Pedr mab Rhys, from Dyfed. He is wanting to learn the harp, and Taliesin has brought him along to take your place while you are gone.”
“Gone?” I cried. “Where am I going?”
Neirin laughed. “To the North with me, I hope! But only for the summer! Na, na, but I should have let him tell you the story himself—no doubt but that I have spoiled it.”
“Now that you have begun, go on!” I said. “But first let us take your horses to the stables, and you can tell me as we go. Besides, there will be less of a crowd there while they are all gathered around our masters, and we shall have more chance to speak!”
“How was your winter?” Neirin asked as we walked. He too had grown over the winter, I thought, though not as much as I; but then he had been the taller already.
“Good,” I said, and thinking back I smiled. “Most of it, at any rate! And yours?”
“Good indeed. Your town of Pengwern where we wintered is a most fair place, and her Prince very generous. He loaded Taliesin with treasures, and could hardly be persuaded to spare him for a few days to make this trip. Indeed, I thought at one point I would have to come alone to make my request, and glad I am that I did not—Talhaearn would have made short work of me! How do you get on with him now?”
“Very well, nowadays,” I said with a laugh. “He is no easy mas-ter, I can tell you, but he has taught me much—if only to know how little I really knew!”
“That is the first lesson,” said Neirin seriously, “and the hardest. I mind me well when I first came to Taliesin: hai mai, I was full of myself! But he soon showed me the error of my thinking.” And he chuckled reminiscently.
Cyndrwyn’s chief groom was waiting at the stables with boys to take the horses, so Neirin and I loaded ourselves with harps and saddlebags and went out again, leaving Pedr behind to deal with the gear on the pack-ponies. “I do not know where they will be putting you,” I said, “but come to our hut first and leave your gear. Then we can talk properly, and I can introduce you to Rhiannedd.”
“Oho!” said Neirin, his amber eyes shining. “This has the sound of news! Should I remember her?” He and Taliesin had spent some days at Llys-tyn-wynnan the previous autumn when I was new there; that was how we first became friends.
“I do not know,” I said, shouldering aside the leather door-curtain and beginning to set down my load on the stone-flagged floor. “You will have seen her, I know, but there are others more memorable at first glance. I will let you decide.”
Neirin grinned. “A good winter indeed, I think you must have had! Though I was not lonely in Pengwern myself. Where now?”
“The hall: I want to see what is passing between our masters. And you still have not told me about this trip we may be making, or about Pedr. He had little enough to say for himself.”
“I doubt we gave him a proper chance,” said Neirin, falling into step beside me. “He is here because Taliesin wants to borrow you from Talhaearn to be my companion on a mission, and feels that he should provide the old man with a substitute while you are gone. Their discussion, I think, should be well worth the hearing!”
“I hope we are in time,” I said, and laughed.
We found Taliesin still talking to the Prince, while Talhaearn stood by with an expression on his craggy face that spoke to me of gathering storm. “Ah, Gwernin!” said Cyndrwyn as we came up. “I have been offering Taliesin the guest lodgings across the courtyard from yours for himself and his party. Would you take them there?”
“Gladly,” I said, keeping a weather eye on Talhaearn. “Neirin and I have just been stowing some of their baggage in our own hut, so…”
“Let us all go and get it, then,” said Taliesin, “and you can be our guide, Gwernin. Prince, we will talk more at meat, if it please you. Talhaearn, give me your company now, please.” And he swept us off with a hand on blind Talhaearn’s arm, gesturing to myself and Neirin to go ahead as he did so. “So here you are again, and unexpectedly as ever,” I heard Talhaearn say behind us. “What are you playing at this time, Gwion?”
“A diplomatic mission, as I said: can you doubt it?” I could hear the laughter in Taliesin’s voice, and Talhaearn’s snort in response. “Na, na, Father of Awen, we will talk of it soon enough, and I hope you will not be displeased. Wait you only until we are indoors and private.”
“As you please, as you please,” said Talhaearn, and was silent until we reached our lodging. As Neirin and I were leaving with the baggage, I heard him say, “What news from Rheged?” But the curtain closed and I lost Taliesin’s answer.
“Phew!” said Neirin as we crossed the court again. “We are well out of that, I am thinking! Ho! Pedr! This way!”—waving to his companion, who was standing irresolute and burdened at the entrance to the stable-yard. As he came up I saw that he was Neirin’s age or a little older, a well-grown handsome young man, with the golden hair and blue eyes you often see on the Saxons, and sometimes on the Irish as well. His voice when he spoke sounded pleasantly of the southwest. “I thought I would never find you,” he said. “This place is like a maze!”
Neirin chuckled. “You would not say that when you had seen Deva, or any of the old Roman towns.”
“I have seen Caerwent,” said Pedr, “but that is mostly straight lines. This is different.”
“Did you pass through Caerllion on your way?” I asked. I had been that way myself a year before, at the start of my adventures.
“Let me think: no, we went by Severn-mouth, and up through Glevum: another Roman town, and bigger than Caerwent, but fewer people in it. A place of the dead; I did not like it.”
“Well, well,” said Neirin peaceably, as we entered the guest lodging. “That is as it may be. Put the packs down over there, and let us sort things out.”
At this point a kitchen boy arrived with a flask of wine and three cups on a tray, saying, “Cyndrwyn sends it for the bards.”
“I will take it to them,” I said, and the boy grinned and left. Pedr made to reach for one of the cups, but I pulled the tray back in surprise. “Pedr, I meant what I said.”
Pedr frowned briefly. “My apologies,” he said. I looked at him for a moment longer, my brows raised, and he continued unwillingly, “I thought you meant for us to share it ourselves; we are bards, too.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said reprovingly. “I am Gwernin Storyteller, and I serve Talhaearn.” And turning, I went out of the room with the tray. Behind me I heard Neirin’s voice speaking to Pedr; the words were muffled, but the tone was not kind.
At the door of my own lodging I paused, hearing the rumble of Talhaearn’s voice within. But I had been in this position before; balancing the tray one-handed, I tapped on the door-post and went in. “Wine from the Prince, masters,” I said; and setting the tray down on a low table, I filled a cup with the strong red wine and took it to Talhaearn. His color was high, and he was frowning, his bushy white brows almost meeting in the middle, but he took the cup readily from my hand and drank. I turned back to do as much for Taliesin, but he was already helping himself. Before drinking he poured a few drops, neatly and deliberately, onto the floor in libation. Looking up he caught my eye and smiled. “No, Gwernin, not about you this time,” he said. “Though that will come soon enough, no doubt. Has Neirin told you my plan?”
“Part of it, Lord,” I said, and looked at Talhaearn. “Master? Do you know?”
“Not yet,” said Talhaearn. “He has only told me that the North is a tinderbox, about to burst into flame, and the Saxons are stirring again in the east, and Cynan Garwyn is doing his best to foment war in the south and west: nothing of great moment, you perceive. Why, what is it that he has yet reserved? Something to do with you, Gwernin, I feel.” He did not add, “as usual,” but I felt it in the air.
I turned back to Taliesin. “Will you tell him, Lord? It will come more completely from you.”
“Gwernin,” said Taliesin lightly, “are you trying to force my hand? Well, then,” and he turned to Talhaearn, “it is true I have come to ask you a favor, Iron Brow, though I would have preferred to choose my own time for the asking. The North being, as I have said, a tinderbox, I am sending Neirin up there this summer to gauge the accuracy of my news and do what he can to soothe things down in his own home country, while I do my best to restrain Cynan. And as he is still young, and only one man, I thought to give him company on this trip by borrowing Gwernin from you for a few months. I have brought a young man with me to serve you while he is gone, Pedr mab Rhys by name, who says he wishes to learn the harp and the other arts of the bard. I think”—and here he grinned unexpectedly—“that you will soon get his measure. Treat him as you will, Father of Awen: perhaps he will last out the summer!”
At that Talhaearn smiled grimly in his gray beard. “Well, we will see,” he said, and then to me: “Gwernin? What do you think of this? Are you ready so soon to leave me?”
At that I went down on my knees beside his chair. “Master,” I said, “you know I am not. I admit that the adventure tempts me, but it is for you to decide, yea or nay. I will do as you desire.”
Talhaearn’s expression softened a little. “Well, well,” he said, “you are very docile. Is it only my company you would be missing, I wonder? Never mind; but do you come back to me in the autumn, and strive not to forget all my teaching in the meantime.” And he laid his hand for a moment on my head as if in blessing. “Now go along with you; Gwion will see me to the hall when it is time.”
The next two days were busy ones. Taliesin and Neirin were staying to keep the Beltane feast with Cyndrwyn before they left, the one for Pengwern again and the other with me for the North. Talhaearn was continually thinking of last-minute instructions or bits of advice for me, some of which I managed to remember. And for myself, I had an urgent desire to spend as much time as I could with my dear dark-haired Rhiannedd before I left.
She had taken the news philosophically, though whether she believed my promises to return I am not sure. “It will be as the gods allow,” she said once when she saw I was troubled, and she smiled up at me so sweetly, her blue eyes so full of understanding, that I could not but kiss her. I had introduced her to Neirin, not without qualms, but he took the measure of our relationship at once, and although he teased me, he treated her like a sister. For her part she soon lost her awe of him, and dealt with him much the same, for all of his high birth—his mother, as I had heard, was own sister to Gwallawg King of Elmet—and the fierce, shining look that came on him sometimes when he played or sang in hall, which led some folk to call him “Taliesin’s Hawk.” Pedr, on the other hand, she took in dislike at once, and I cannot say that I was sorry, for there was no denying he was a very handsome man.
Now Beltane, as you know, is Calan Yr Haf, the beginning of summer, when the plowing is over, and the first crops in, and the increase of the land begins to be felt. When the bonfires that would be lit that evening were sinking, we would drive the cattle between them for protection and increase in the coming year. It was the custom, too, for men and women, those who desired this sort of blessing, to leap or run between the fires themselves; it was also a form of unofficial hand-fasting.
Rhiannedd and I would not be leaping the fires this year. We had talked long and long about it, for during the past winter I had come to know that I loved her, and she loved me. But I had no way to support a wife: no land, no livelihood, no way to raise a bride-price. By my own actions in choosing the bard’s path against the wishes of my family, I had cut myself off from my kindred and my possible inheritance in Powys Cynan. I was free-born, yes, and had some status in Cyndrwyn’s llys as my master’s apprentice, and lately also from my own talents: but that was all. Some day, perhaps, when Talhaearn was satisfied with my training, I might become bardd teulu, the bard of the retinue: so I was becoming unofficially already. Some day, perhaps, I might be a pencerdd, a Master Bard, myself. But these possibilities were long years in the future: not enough to build a life on now. All this Rhiannedd and I knew and had discussed; but knowing in the head is not knowing in the blood. And we were very young.
On Beltane Eve the two of us stood near the fires hand in hand, as we had stood at Midwinter; but this was a calm, mild night, not one of icy cold. We watched as the black and brown cattle were driven bawling between the fires, the cows with their new calves at their heels and the sparks flying wild about them; and after the cattle, the sheep, with the sheepdogs barking behind. Then, as the flames were dying down, the men and women went through: the young ones running and laughing, some of them holding hands; the older ones more deliberately. At last, when it was very late, and few folk were left, I looked at Rhiannedd, and she looked back at me, and something passed between us. Then we, too, ran between the sinking fires, holding hands; and that night we did not go back to the court at all, but spent the time together on the green hillside, with one cloak beneath us, and another above, and the pale stars of summer overhead. And when we went home in the dawn, still hand in hand, we knew that we were bound as sure as any, though no priest had blessed our union—no mortal priest—and no bride price had changed hands. And the next day I took horse with Neirin and we rode north.
But that, O my children, is a story for another day.
Chapter 2: The Road North
I mind me well that summer morning when Neirin and I rode out of Llys-tyn-wynnan on our way north. The sky was a high clear blue, the early sunlight glittered on a million dewdrops, and all the earth was clothed in tender green of a thousand different shades. Around us the birds sang loudly—a little too loudly for my taste, for last night’s feasting and beer-drinking had gone late, and I was not feeling my best in consequence. With the other two pack-ponies on a lead behind me, I jogged lazily along at the rear of our party on the black one I had borrowed once before, watching Taliesin and Neirin deep in conversation ahead of me, and remembering my parting from Talhaearn. “So,” he had said musingly, looking toward the two of them where they stood in the dawn-pale courtyard—for he was not wholly blind, and in the half-light he could see shapes and colors—“Taliesin flies his hawk at last. Well, well, it is full time. But I wonder, will that one ever come to the glove again, once he has felt the wind in his wings?” And he had smiled a little, and gone on to give me a list of instructions which I could not now remember. I hoped Pedr would take good care of the old Bard while I was gone, but I admit I had my doubts; Pedr the Fair did not seem like the sort to take good care of anyone but himself.
A pleasanter memory was Rhiannedd, and the night we had spent together after leaping the Beltane fires. These thoughts kept me entertained for some time, while we made our way down out of the hills and into a wider and wider valley, and the bright morning changed to a warm midday. A mile short of Caer Einion we turned northeast, following the trace of the old road which runs up Dyffryn Meifod. It was at this point I realized that Taliesin was not going straight back to Pengwern, but was coming with us as far as Deva.
“Yes,” he said when I asked, “I want to visit with Prince Cyndeyrn there, for he too is Cynan’s cousin, and may have some influence on him. And besides”—and here he grinned like a boy—“I have been too long indoors this winter, talking endlessly to old men in the smoky torchlight; I need a while in the clean air and sunlight to remember who I am!”
“Gods protect us,” said Neirin, mock-gloomy. “It will rain the rest of the way!” And we all laughed.
So it came about that three of us, and not two only, rode into Deva the following evening over the Romans’ stone-built bridge, having spent the previous night in a village on the edge of the hill country. And true to Neirin’s prediction, it was raining, a small mizzle rain that had been falling steadily all day, seeming like nothing when it started but gradually soaking through the thickest cloak. By now I was wet to the skin, my hair plastered to my face and rain dripping from my chin and trickling down my neck, but this was the least of my misery. I had never ridden so far or so long before in my life, and every part of my body from my neck to my knees was telling me so. I was almost ready to get down and walk, despite the mud and filth of the road, and I hoped desperately that we would be spending more than one night in Deva.
Nevertheless, I looked around me with interest as we left the bridge, for although Deva, like all the Roman towns, had lost a considerable amount of its past grandeur and population, it had been a great seaport in its day, and was still the largest city I had yet encountered. Indeed, as we made our way through the fortress gate and along the stone-paved street to the Prince’s compound, I almost forgot my misery in wonder. When we reached the courtyard, however, I slid to the ground with a groan, and had to stand for a moment clutching the black pony’s mane before I could trust my legs to bear me.
“Sorry I am, Gwernin,” said Taliesin, dismounting beside me. He sighed and stretched, then pushed back the hood of the leather rain cape which had kept him fairly dry. “I forgot you were not used to riding so far. But this ill, at least, practice will cure. Come into the hall with me now, while Neirin leads our horses on to the stable.” And taking his saddlebags, he turned to the doorway where folk were waiting to greet us. I looked up at Neirin, still mounted, who gave me a rueful grin from the shelter of his own hood. “Sa, do you go with him,” he said. “I will be seeing you in a little while.” So handing him the pack-ponies’ lead-ropes and taking down my saddle-roll, I followed Taliesin into the hall.
Inside the door I stopped, for after the darkening twilight outside, the long room seemed ablaze with light and fire, and sweet with the scent of the resin-rich torches. Beside the central hearth Taliesin stood talking to three tall, richly dressed men, one of them grey-bearded and the other two young. As I watched, a fair young woman in a red gown of fine-spun wool came down the hall toward them, bearing in her two hands a great silver cup. Smiling, she stopped and offered it to Taliesin with some soft words I did not catch. He took it with an answering smile and drank, and gave it back to her. Then turning, he saw me and motioned me forward. I came, trying not to limp, and stopped beside them.
“Be welcome in our hall, stranger,” said the young woman, offering me the guest cup. I took it, and looked into her face, and was caught. Her eyes were as green as forest shadows, and her hair as golden as the broom, and her clear skin like pale heather honey: and she smiled faintly at me in perfect consciousness of her beauty. I stood there like a fool with the cup in my hands, until at last Taliesin’s voice recalled me to my senses. “You had better drink, Gwernin,” he was saying, and I could hear the ripple of amusement in his voice. “You are keeping the Lady Denw waiting.” Blushing, I muttered something disjointed, and drank, and returned the cup, and could not have said afterwards whether it contained water or wine.
An hour later I was happier than I had ever expected to be that night—a state due, not to the Lady Denw’s beauty, but to one of the old surviving Roman features of Deva which I had never before encountered: hot baths. Our travel-stained clothes stripped off and taken away by servants to be dried and brushed, the three of us were sitting shoulder deep in a sunken pool of steaming water in the Prince’s bath house, warm to the core and almost too relaxed to move. All my clenched muscles had untied themselves, and even the raw spots where I had been too long in contact with a saddle were losing their sting. Neirin seemed to have fallen asleep where he sat, and Taliesin’s eyes were half-closed, though as I watched he opened them and sighed, and sat up straighter. “We will have to get out soon, I suppose,” he said, pushing the damp hair back out of his face. “I could wish more kings still kept to the Roman ways.” And he reached over and jogged Neirin. “Wake up, Little Hawk.”
Neirin opened his amber eyes and smiled. “A very fair dream I was having, and now you have spoiled it.” He yawned. “Hai mai! And now I am hungry! Do you suppose we can still get supper?”
“We can try,” said Taliesin, and stood up, scattering water
everywhere.
Warm, dry, and in clean clothes, I felt a different man. The evening was not so far advanced as the rainy twilight had made it appear, and we found that feasting was still going on in the hall, where we were made welcome. Taliesin was seated at the Prince’s own table, while Neirin and I found places lower in the hall and were rapidly provided with wooden cups and bowls by the well-trained servants. The food was abundant and good—spit-roasted beef came into it, as I remember, and fish of some kind, and little brown barley loaves—and the drink was clear golden mead. The latter I sipped with care, remembering its potency from one or two previous occasions.
Neirin was watching the high table, where Taliesin sat talking with the grey-beard I had seen earlier, who must be the Prince Cyndeyrn. Some sort of question must have been asked, for Taliesin was shaking his head and smiling; then he glanced in our direction, gestured at us, and shook his head again. “Na, na,” said Neirin under his breath. “That was not well done—tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“For what?” I asked, puzzled.
“Performance. There was no need to press him, and he straight from the road. And it is not as if the Prince had no Bard himself.” And this was true: I had previously noted a tall, dark man near the end of the high table dressed in what looked like a singing-robe, who seemed vaguely familiar to me from the previous summer. “Bluchbardd,” said Neirin, following my gaze. “And he is good enough of his kind, though not of our masters’ standard. You should be thinking what you might perform tomorrow, if they ask you.”
“Me?” I said, startled. Over the winter Talhaearn had impressed on me strongly that as his student I was not to perform without his permission.
“Yes, you.” And Neirin grinned. “I am not going to do all the work this summer, and I know you are a good storyteller. So do you think of it, and be prepared.”
“I might,” I said slowly. “But my master—”
“Talhaearn has loaned you to Taliesin, and he has loaned you to me,” said Neirin, still grinning. “For this while, I am your master, and I say you are to perform. Is it not good?”
“It is,” I said, and grinned back at him. “But mind that you treat me well!”
“That,” said Neirin, making his mouth prim, “goes without saying.” Then he laughed. “Hai mai! But we will have fun!” And I laughed with him.
By and by Bluchbardd got up from his seat at the high table and took a performer’s stance, and a young boy brought him his harp. I listened critically to the song that followed. It was, as Neirin said, good enough of its kind—better, indeed, than I could do myself in those days—but predictable. Apparently much of the audience thought so too, for there soon began to be a background hum of conversation, and the applause that followed was half-hearted. A second song fared no better; then the singer sat down, and the babble of voices in the hall rose to its previous volume. “Not hard for you to better that,” I said to Neirin.
“Sa, we will see. An odd place, this.” I nodded; I had felt it too: there was something strange about this court and its people, something hard to put my finger on, and I thought it centered around the Lady Denw. She was seated now at the high table between her younger brother and Taliesin, and all the light of the hall seemed to shine on her fair head. It was she who drew the gaze, not the dark singer Bluchbardd and his unheard praise. He was watching her now as she talked to Taliesin, with something like hunger in his face. The sight stirred a memory in me which I could not quite recall, a memory of ill-omen. I carried the thought to bed with me that night, but found no answer in my dreams.
When I awoke the next morning in the guest-house, Taliesin was already up and gone, and Neirin was dressing. “We are at liberty to explore,” he said grinning. “And the rain has stopped, no doubt because Taliesin is indoors talking again: come and see!” Flinging on my second-best tunic—I had only the two—I followed him to the feast-hall in search of breakfast. It was not so late as I had at first feared, and many of the folk of the court were seated there still, breaking their fast with fresh wheaten bread and cheese, and cold roast meat from the night before.
Taliesin was at the high table again with the Prince and his sons, and I noticed with interest that the Lady Denw was with them once more as well. This morning her gown was of a pure dark green, like oak leaves in midsummer, and her hair seemed to have brought some of the morning sunlight indoors. For the most part she sat quietly at her father’s side, now and then adding a word to the conversation, but her eyes were on Taliesin, though I could not see that he paid her much heed in return. I watched them as I ate, but got nothing by it, and by and by Neirin and I arose and went out to explore the town.
Much of Deva, I found, was in origin a Roman fortress, and a large one at that, built to house many hundreds or thousands of soldiers, while the civilian settlement which grew up outside its brown sandstone walls was much smaller. After the Eagles left, however—whether with Maxen Wledig when he marched on Rome itself, or in some later campaign—the settlement outside had gradually moved within the walls, so that now most of the people lived there. The Prince’s compound enclosed the old Commander’s house and the headquarters building, and was itself a defensible space, but between it and the river-gate through which we had come the evening before was an extensive range of red-tiled, half-timbered buildings. Under the Eagles they had been barracks and storehouses, kitchens and mess halls, but now they were workshops and homes for all the trades and people that make up a town. In the streets the smells of wood-smoke and horse-droppings mingled with those of fish and seaweed from the broad brown tidal river outside, and the warm morning was loud with the crying of gulls and of children. It seemed a busy, bustling place to me, though no doubt it would have looked a pale shadow of itself to the people who built it so many lifetimes ago. Neirin and I wandered through it at our leisure, inspecting the goods in the workshops and the fishing boats at the wharf, and watching the people in the streets. There were some very pretty girls among them, as we pointed out to each other.
“Yes,” I said, after Neirin had managed to get a smile from one passing beauty, “she is very well indeed, but nothing compared to the Lady Denw. What do you think of her?”
“Fine indeed,” said Neirin, grinning, “but no meat for us, I am thinking.”
“Na, she will be looking higher for a match—or her father will be. It did seem to me,” I said, picking my way carefully, “that she was much taken with Taliesin, though I could not see that he was interested.”
“Na, na,” said Neirin easily, “he will have other things on his mind. He is not much of a one for the women in any case, though he does not dislike them; likely it will be the same for us when we reach his age, for he is not young.”
“Maybe,” I said, frowning a little dubiously, “but in the meantime—look at that one! Can you get her to stop and talk to us, do you think? You are better at this than I am!”
“I can try,” said Neirin; and he did it, too.
In the late afternoon we came back to the guest-house and found Taliesin sitting cross-legged on a bench in the sun, with his harp in his hands and an inward-looking expression on his face. He greeted us absent-mindedly, then roused himself to give us our instructions for the evening. And when it was time for meat, we went again to the hall.
This time Neirin and I were seated closer to the high table as part of Taliesin’s entourage. He himself was dressed more formally tonight, and wore the silver circlet I had seen on him once or twice before, and the great enamel-set golden brooch which Neirin said had been of a gift from Arthur the High King, in the far-off days when Taliesin served him and first got his title “Chief of Bards.” Whether because of this, or because of something in his bearing, he seemed taller tonight, a larger, more shining presence, so that all eyes went to him again and again, and when he stood up presently from the high table to sing, the silence in the hall was immediate and total. Neirin, who had brought his own harp with him to the hall, had gone up earlier by pre-arrangement, and now stood ready to accompany his master.
The song which Taliesin sang that night began with praise of Arthur as the great warrior who had defeated the Saxon armies:
“I sing a great King, Arthur Chief Dragon—
I saw him destroy men, I saw his delight!
Great Bull of Battle, strong Pillar of Britain,
Bright-blood-stained Wolf he was, red-shafted Spear!
Once here beside this same City of Legions
Dead of all England he spread on the field.
Charging upon them he led in the front line—
Ravens grew red as he splintered their shields.
You broke them wholly, Arthur War-Leader,
Many a man you trampled in mire,
Marshes ran red beneath your rich vengeance,
Five kings you slew in a single charge!
Forcing surrender on Sussex’s raiders,
Back to the beaches you hurled them in woe—
Nor let them leave without their sore wounding—
Reaper of corpses, most fierce to your foes!”
So far, so good; but Taliesin did not stop there. Best in war Ar-thur was, but also best in peace:
“Greatest of Britons, generous gold-giver,
None could surpass you in peace as in war.
Kindest of kings, best gift you gave us—
Peace in our fields, peace in our homes!
Gifts from our God garnered in safety—
From your iron hand no raider could reave!
Strongest you stood, standing above us,
Steadfast and stern, great Lord of all.
Like the high God, none could defy you,
None could defeat you, thrice-honored king!”
For this, said Taliesin, Arthur would be remembered:
“Though at cruel Camlann you won your last battle
And into the West then you sailed from our sight,
Down through all ages your legend will burn still—
Brightest of Britons, our great beacon-light!
Until this world, darkness-enveloped,
Winds to its end, your name will be known—
All bards that be praises will sing you,
And in high heaven build your new throne.”
At the end the hall was full of breath-held silence. Then the applause began, a pounding, shouting tumult that seem to shake the roof-tree itself. When it died down at last Taliesin sang again, a shorter, simpler song but no less potent, praising the Prince Cyndeyrn, his strength in war and in peace, his strong sons and beautiful daughter. Then he sat down again, and the Lady Denw with her green eyes and faint smile came to bear him the mead-cup from her father the Prince, and in a little while the hall returned to its customary conversation.
By and by Bluchbardd sang in his turn, with no better results than on the previous night. But before that I had seen him watching Taliesin, his dark face darker than ever with anger, and a look in his eyes which I would not have wanted turned on me; and a small finger of cold stroked down my neck and was gone, lost in the mead-bright warmth of the hall. Then Neirin asked me if I had decided which story I might perform if asked, and in the ensuing discussion I forgot Bluchbardd and his troubles, if that was what they were.
We stayed one more day and night in Deva, but Taliesin did not sing again for our hosts. Instead he set Neirin to harp for them, and me to tell one of my stock of tales; and both of us were well received, and well rewarded. And if our rewards stopped short of the Lady Denw’s admiration, neither did we collect any enmity from others, which was just as well.
But that, O my children, is a story for another day.
Chapter 3: The King in the Ground
A day’s ride east of Deva the traveler on the old Roman roads has a choice: to turn left for Mamucium and the north, or right to rejoin the great south road to Londinium. If you want to go due east, you can take one choice or the other and then work back towards your goal, or you can head straight for the Peaks, cutting across the marshy land between as best you may. Like all choices, each of these three has its consequences: Neirin wanted to go first to Elmet, and so we chose the middle way.
We had parted from Taliesin the day before outside Deva, on a cool grey morning that promised neither sun nor rain. The previous afternoon he had gone out into the town and returned with a present for me: a hooded leather rain-cape like his own. It was tied behind my saddle now, and from time to time I touched it, and remembered how he and Neirin had embraced at parting, briefly but hard, all their good-byes already said the night before. After that Neirin had been silent for nearly half a day, a most unusual state of affairs with him, and then had recovered his voice and spirits with a bound. Since then he had barely stopped talking.
Now we sat our tail-switching ponies beside a stream, contemplating the way forward. The game trail we had been following had died out in a dozen smaller branches, and nothing much larger than a hare could have penetrated the tangled briars and brambles before us. The stream banks were muddy where they were not choked with reeds, and the peat-brown water of the stream itself hinted at worse ahead. Altogether the prospects were not inviting.
Neirin slapped irritably at the cloud of insects buzzing around his face. “I am not knowing which way next,” he said, “but I think if we sit here much longer we will be eaten alive, and the horses with us.”
“Back, then,” I said, turning my pony, “and follow that bit of ridge to the right. Trees are more likely to be dry-footed than reeds.”
“We can but try,” said Neirin, and “Hup! Come on, you!” to our packhorse, who had decided to graze. We splashed back across the muddy ford we had crossed earlier and scrambled up the bank. The afternoon was overcast and warm, and sweat was trickling down my back under my tunic. Maybe, I thought, it would be cooler under the trees.
Certainly it was darker. After a little casting about we found a deer trail, and followed it as best we could—deer think nothing of jumping an obstacle that a horse cannot pass!—hoping that it was taking us in the right direction. It was hard on the level ground to tell up-slope from down, and harder under the oaks to tell east from west. I began to suspect we were riding in circles, and soon I knew it, when we came for the second time to a fallen tree from which our horses had brushed the moss in passing. “Now what?”
“Am I a Druid, or a seer, to give you the answer?” asked Neirin glumly, running his fingers through his sweat-dark hair. “I thought this would be easier; we could see the hills so clearly this morning. Where have they gone?”
“Maybe it is ‘where have we come?’ instead?” I said, thoughtfully scratching the back of my neck where an insect had been dining. “I do not have the feel of the land here at all. It is like riding through fog.”
“Yes, you are right. Well…” Neirin closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to be listening. Then he pointed to the right. “That way.” As if in answer there was a distant rumble of thunder, and a little breeze touched our sweating faces for a moment and died away. We looked at each other, then shrugged and turned the horses to the right, into another deer-trod that looked the same as all the rest. But slowly as we went along the ground began to rise, although the forest—and the sense of riding through fog—was as thick as ever. The light was fading fast; now and again we heard the thunder again, and it was coming closer. Neirin looked about him as he rode and shook his head from time to time. “Na, na, na, I cannot,” he said, half to himself. “But … somewhere … Gwernin, stop a moment. I need—to get down.”
I pulled up my pony, concerned, and took the packhorse’s lead rope and his own reins from him. “Are you ill?” I asked. He certainly looked pale enough.
“Na, but—I have to—be still.” As he spoke Neirin was sliding down from his horse to stand, swaying slightly, in a listening pose, feet well apart, head up, but with his eyes still closed. As I watched him the thunder spoke again, very close now, and from nowhere a wind began to rise, a cold wind with the smell of rain in it. I shivered, and my hand went again to my new rain-cloak, as much in reassurance as in immediate need.
Then three things happened at once: Neirin cried out a word I did not know, in a voice between triumph and pain; there was a flash of light and an enormous rending crash as lightening split a nearby oak; and the threatened rain began to fall in torrents. For a moment, still half-blind from the lightning, I had my hands full with the horses, who wanted to bolt. When I could see again, Neirin had disappeared.
A cold tide of panic flooded through me. “Neirin!” I called. “Where are you? Are you hurt?” I got no answer; in the noise of the storm I could scarcely hear myself. If Neirin was on the ground, the horses, still barely under control, might tread on him. Keeping a tight grip on the reins, I dismounted, meaning to tie them to a tree. Then the earth slid out from under my feet, and I was falling.
Only my grip on the reins and the lead rope saved me. As I clung to them, my feet over empty air, my body battered against stone, the frightened horses backed away, and backing, hauled me out of the pit that had opened beneath me. I lay on the muddy ground gasping, half-drowned by the rain pouring down on my face; then with a convulsive heave I rolled over and got to my feet. Somehow I got the horses picketed, then searched on hands and knees the place where Neirin had been standing, as well as I could guess, when he disappeared. The pit into which I had almost fallen was close by; its earthy breath rose fog-like into the rain and wreathed about the trees. I called Neirin’s name again and again into its mouth, but got no reply. Then, as clearly as if he spoke into my ear, I heard Taliesin’s voice, giving me the rain-cape. “This should give you shelter when you need it most,” he had said.
I stood up and went to the black pony, and took the rolled cape from the back of the saddle where it was tied. It went on easily; almost at once I felt warmer, and with the rain no longer beating on my head, less confused. I turned back to search again for Neirin, and as I did so I saw with the corner of my eye a light coming through the trees. I blinked and it was gone, but when I turned my head I saw it again. It was a lantern.
The room was pleasantly warm, sweet-scented with smoke from the brazier. “Do not you be looking at the edges,” said Neirin’s voice behind me. “That is the hard part. Once we are in we will be safe, until we go out again… Ah, that is good!” And he stepped past me and set his lantern down next to another one on a table which stood against one wall. Turning, he smiled faintly. “Do you sit down,” he said. “He is with the horses now, but he will be back soon.”
“Are you not hurt?” I asked. It seemed as reasonable a question as any. “I was afraid you fell.”
“Na, I am not hurt, or at least, not from falling,” said Neirin, seating himself on a bench by the brazier and holding out his hands to the fire. He was almost as wet as I was, and there was blood on his cheek and forehead. “It will be well with me. Only do not ask questions; I doubt me I have answers. Even Taliesin cannot explain it, not in words. Do you sit down; it is better that way.”
I pushed back the hood of my rain-cloak and sat down by the brazier. The fire felt good on my cold hands. I was dimly aware that my body was strained and bruised, and would be very sore tomorrow, but it did not seem to matter. Everything was a little out of focus, and that was best.
The door opened, and a man came in, a tall black-bearded man in a white robe. “Be welcome, friends,” he said. “Will you have drink?”
“Gladly,” said Neirin. I looked sideways at him, wondering, but he was still smiling. The black-bearded man poured something from a blue-glazed pitcher into two wooden cups, and handed them to us; then he went and sat himself down in a high-backed oak chair on the other side of the brazier. “Drink, friends, and be welcome,” he said in a pleasantly husky voice. “No harm there is in it.” Neirin drank, and after a moment I followed suit. It seemed at first to be water, with a faint, herbal aftertaste, but it spread a warmth in me like the finest mead, and the pains of which I had been dimly aware receded.
Watching us, the stranger nodded approvingly. “That is well,” he said. “If you have hunger, there are nuts and cheese beside you. Will you eat?”
“Gladly,” said Neirin again, and helped himself, and passed the bowls to me. The cheese was soft and fresh, ewe-milk cheese, and the nuts were hazelnuts. I ate, and hunger I had not noticed faded.
The room was quiet except for the fire; there was no sound of storm, no rattle of rain on the house, no voice of wind without. We might be in a cave, but if so, a very comfortable one. There was apple-wood in the brazier, and the table was polished oak; the walls were lime-washed stone, and the floor of glazed tiles. When the stranger entered, there had been no sound of storm outside, and no light. But perhaps it was night, and the storm had passed.
“Gwernin,” said Neirin’s voice beside me, “do not you be thinking so much. Look only at what is before you: it is better thus. Lord,” he said to the white-robed man, “we thank you for your hospitality. Will you tell us your name, and such of your story as we may know?”
The stranger smiled, showing good teeth. “I have no name now, Noble One,” he said. “It is gone: it was taken: I gave it away. Call me Claddedig, if you will: the Buried One: for such is the name of the King in the Ground.”
“Ah,” said Neirin. “I knew it. We are privileged, Lord, to meet you here. Is there any of your story you can tell? I would not press you.”
“No,” said Claddedig. “No… It is well. A long time now it is, since I have had visitors. Will you tell me your names?”
“Neirin,” said Neirin, “son of Dwywei, daughter of Lleenawg Elmet. My father was Cynfelyn Eidyn, Mynyddog Mwynfawr of Dun Eidyn. And—Gwernin?”
“Gwernin Storyteller,” I said, “son of Gwenfrewy, daughter of Cadell Coch, of Pengwern. I do not know my blood father, Lord; my name-father was Ynyr son of Huwel.”
“It is well,” said Claddedig. “So—a story then.” And he smiled. “In the years after the Romans came to Britain—you know it, do you not, my children?”
“We do,” said Neirin. “Go on.”
“Yes… In those days, there was much—disruption—in the land. Mona was burnt, and many good men killed. Boudicca raised her rebellion, and died of it. Caradawg was betrayed to the Romans, and taken away in chains, to what fate we did not know. And many worse things”—and Claddedig showed his teeth here in a snarl—“were done. Some of them, I grant you, by the Britons. But still…”
“I have heard that tale,” said Neirin. “Go on.”
“Well… In the years after Boudicca died, the Romans reaved much treasure from this land. Gold and silver, my children, were the least of it. They pillaged also our language, our customs, all the forms that made us who we were. For who are you, my children?” asked Claddedig.
“Those who would presently be Bards,” said Neirin. “You know of what I speak: go on.”
“Yes.” And Claddedig smiled again. “The keepers of the Word: the keepers of the Name: in effect, all who came after me. For I was the Chief of my Order: and for that, to save that, to guard that, I was put into the ground.”
“I knew it,” said Neirin. “For so my master taught me: go on.”
“Ah,” said Claddedig, and was a while silent. “The Romans broke our language: the Romans broke our customs. So I have said. They did more than that: they did worse than that. They would have made this Island a land without a people: a people without a land. Do you know, O my children, who I was?”
“A Druid: a Priest: a Prince,” said Neirin. “And more than that, and less than that, and wholly that. A maker, a shaper, a remembrancer: one tied to the earth, and the heavens, and the seasons. Is there more?”
“Yes,” said Claddedig, “and no: all of these, and none of these I was. Will you hear a questioning?”
“Yes,” said Neirin, “go on.”
“Sa, sa,” said Claddedig, “here it is then:
“Who is the King within the Ground,
Why is the Stone within the Ring,
What is the Bell that makes no sound,
When will the New Lord come in spring?
“Can you answer?”
Neirin sat for a while, and then covered his eyes with his hands, and leaned forward as if very tired. “You are the King within the Ground, that is clear,” he said after a moment, “and I think, if I must, that I could give a name to you, Lord; but the rest I cannot answer now: I am too young, and I am too old, and I am too weary. The New Lord, I think, should come at Beltane: and yet I am not sure. Will you go on?”
“I will,” said Claddedig, and he smiled. “Well, then, as I said, the Romans broke that which they did not understand, and profaned that which they did; and from one end to the other of Britain they made a desolation, and called it a peace. It was right, then, that something … someone … should be set to counter them, that our land should not wholly die. In the year in which this was decided, there were few of us left: and I was most senior. And so it fell to me, after due deliberation, to make and to be the Sacrifice: to make and to be the Chosen One: to make and to be the Guardian at the Gate.”
“Yes,” said Neirin, “I understand you well: go on.”
“Ah,” said Claddedig. “Will you come and see the treasure I guard?”
“Gladly,” said Neirin, and stood up. “Gwernin?”
“Gladly,” I said, and followed them.
It was a long way, it was a short way; it was very deep, and very shallow, in the earth. It was a great hall beneath the ground, piled with every sort of treasure that could excite a man’s desire. It was a place empty and dark and forsaken. We stood at the doorway, and looked out, and saw—and did not see—both of these. With every heartbeat in my breast the vista changed: treasure and emptiness, gold and darkness, life and death. “Gwernin?” said Neirin again beside me.
“Yes,” I said, “I see it, and Not-It. What is the answer, Lord?” This was the first time I spoke to Claddedig myself, and I felt his smile beside me in the darkness.