A Moment in Time (28 page)

The prince of Dyfed was caught helplessly between his council and his wife. He loved her, but that love could not override the fact that his son was missing under strange circumstances. The Cymri were a people of regular habits;
but,
a voice whispered in his head,
the Fair Folk are an elusive people whose ways are obscure and secret.
Perhaps Rhiannon had not been directly involved in Anwyl's disappearance, but the Fair Folk could be. Perhaps this was but another of King Dylan's conditions of their marriage. One that Rhiannon had feared to tell him. A firstborn son was a valuable commodity.

Then Bronwyn of the White Breast spoke up, and all turned to hear her words. "This is obviously some enchantment of the Fair Folk," she said, amazingly voicing Pwyll's concerns. "It has come upon not just you, my lord, but upon us all, for the baby, Anwyl, was the hope of Dyfed's future. It has come upon Dyfed because you insisted in wedding with this woman of the Fair Folk. A woman not of our own people. She has brought you, brought us all, bad luck.

"For two years we waited for her to produce an heir for Dyfed. Now, the very day after the child's birth, it is dead. This kingdom is without an heir. Who is to say that this horrible thing will not happen over and over again until it is too late for Pwyll to sire a child? What will then become of our fair land?

"The council has advised you well, my lord. They have said you should put this creature of the Fair Folk aside. Divorce her! You must choose a wife from amongst our kind and remarry as soon as possible." Bronwyn turned back to Pwyll and knelt before him. "I know, my dear lord, that there is no hope for me, for you do not love me; but please, I beg of you, choose one of our women for your wife, lest Dyfed wither beneath the curse this woman of the Fair Folk has brought upon us!"

"I will not divorce Rhiannon," Pwyll said, but his voice was uncertain and it trembled slightly.

"Nonetheless, my lord, she must be punished," said Cynbel of Teifi.

"For what?"
demanded Taran of the Hundred Battles.

"The child is dead," was the answer.

"The boy is missing," snapped Evan ap Rhys. "There is no logical proof of his demise."

"The child is gone, my lord," Cynbel amended, "but he is as good as dead to us. This woman is obviously responsible. If she were not, she should produce her son that she might save herself. She has not, and therefore condemns herself by her inaction. She must be punished for this terrible crime!"

The other members of Dyfed's council nodded solemnly, in total agreement with Cynbel's words, and the lord of Teifi smiled, pleased. If Rhiannon were punished for the baby's loss, he thought, it would give them all time to convince Pwyll to divorce her and choose another wife. For all his daughter's self-effacing words, Cynbel knew her ambitions to be Pwyll's wife had not abated in the least. Pwyll must have a Cymri wife, and who better than Bronwyn of the White Breast; but it would take time. With Rhiannon in complete disgrace, they would have the time. Cynbel did not know what had happened to Anwyl ap Pwyll, but then he really did not care. It was very unlikely the child would ever be found.

"You must take command of this situation, my lord," he told Pwyll sternly.

Pwyll looked again to Rhiannon. He, who had always been so decisive, suddenly felt confused and afraid. Everything had been so perfect. Why was this happening to them? "Rhiannon, my love, I beg of you to end this bewitchment and to restore our child to us," he said desperately. He knew now that he was powerless to save her, and he had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

"Pwyll, my love," she gently reminded him. "When I left my father's castle to become your wife, I left magic behind. You know that to be the truth. Why have you lost your faith in me, my lord? Did you not promise me when I agreed to be your mate that you would always love and trust me without question? Why do you speak of punishment when I tell you and your council that you should be sending forth to all the kingdoms of the Cymri, and aye, to the Fair Folk as well, the word of this tragedy that has befallen us. Our child has been stolen away, Pwyll, but I am not responsible for his disappearance. Have I ever played you false? It is not within the nature of the Fair Folk to lie. What has made you doubt me? Why will you not defend me against these charges and slanders?)"

Helplessly Pwyll looked from his wife and back to his council. His sea-blue eyes had filled with sudden tears as she pleaded with him. "I cannot put her aside," he half whispered to his council. "Whatever has happened, I love her!"

The council gathered together at one end of the hall, conferring in dark whispers. The courtiers clustered on another side of the hall, murmuring to one another and casting unfriendly looks in Rhiannon's direction. Taran and Evan spoke fiercely and urgently to the prince while Rhiannon stood proud and alone, silent tears slipping down her beautiful face. At last the council came before Pwyll once again.

Cynbel spoke the words of Rhiannon's punishment. "Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, it is my duty to sentence you now for whatever part you may have played in the disappearance of our prince Anwyl. For seven years, beginning on the morrow, you are condemned to sit before this castle, a horse collar about your neck. You must admit your crime to each passerby and carry upon your back into this hall any and all who wish to enter therein. Winter and summer, in weather fair and foul, you will sit before the gates. You will not be excused from this punishment for any reason short of death or an end to its term.

"At night you will be freed of your horse collar and allowed shelter in the farthest corner of this hall away from the warmth of the fire. Your sustenance will be whatever falls from the tables that you can retrieve before the dogs get it. It is forbidden that any speak with you lest your wickedness befoul the innocent, for you are evil incarnate. This punishment is a traditional one amongst our people, and should you survive it, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, you will be banished from Dyfed afterward to go wherever you would choose; but as your crime will be broadcast amongst the lands of the Cymri, it is unlikely you will ever find shelter or kindness amongst our peoples again. This is as it should be, and is the final decision of the council," Cynbel of Teifi concluded, unable to keep a faintly spiteful tone from his voice.

Pwyll of Dyfed heard the sentence passed upon his wife with a breaking heart. He turned away from Rhiannon, unable to face her. He loved her in spite of it all, but he no longer knew what to believe. Anwyl was gone and Rhiannon refused to do anything about it. He simply could not believe that she did not still possess some powers of enchantment.
She had to!
No one would really throw away such gifts just for love of another! He could understand a woman claiming to give up her most precious possession for him, but not really doing it. She must surely have retained her powers, so why did she refuse to use them to find her son? Unless, of course, she was indeed lying to him. Unless she was truly involved in this wickedness. Was it possible?

In the face of an armed enemy, Pwyll of Dyfed had known no fear, but now, suddenly he was very afraid. His hand visibly shaking, he reached out for a goblet of wine. Yesterday he had possessed all a man could want or desire. A beautiful wife, a healthy son, a happy kingdom. Now he had nothing.
Ashes!
It had all turned to ashes, and he did not understand why. Was his council right? Was he being punished for having wed a princess of the Fair Folk? Rhiannon had had powerful suitors among her own kind. Had one of them taken his revenge on Pwyll of Dyfed? It should not have happened had he married a woman of his own kind. He gulped his wine and groaned aloud.

When they attempted to lay hands upon Rhiannon, she took their hands off and walked proudly from the hall, never once looking back at her husband. She heard them lock the door to her chamber behind her as she entered her room, but she cared not. She could not believe the events of the past hour, and yet her son's cradle stood an empty testimony to the destruction of her marriage and her life. What a fool she had been to believe that love alone could conquer all obstacles to happiness! Had her family not tried to warn her? But she would not listen. She had deliberately and selfishly pursued her own desires.

Rhiannon had realized from the start that the Cymri did not accept her. At least Pwyll's court, with whom she must live, did not accept her. She had believed, however, that in time she would allay their fears of her origins, but alas there had always remained that suspicion of anything or anyone different from the Cymri. Bronwyn of the White Breast had seen to that, although on the whole the men had been kinder than the women.

The men had been fascinated by her fair beauty, so different from Cymri women. With them all, men and women alike, she had been modest, serene, nonthreatening. Never thrusting herself forward lest she irritate them. Never voicing unfavorable comparisons between her people and the Cymri. She had been kind to all, and yet they still would not accept her. How many times had she pretended not to see them staring at her? Whispering behind their hands and pointing slyly at her? She had borne it, all for the love of Pwyll. For love of a man who, in the face of mystery, had abandoned her.

He had never seen any of it, for she would not allow him to see their unkindness. Instead she had worked harder in an effort to bridge the gap between herself and the Cymri. She was skilled at weaving, but the exquisite cloth that spilled from her loom, finer in texture and more unique in its design than any they had seen before, only roused deeper jealousy amid the Cymri women. They seemed to delight in the differences between her work and theirs, criticizing sharply at every turn.

Among her own people Rhiannon was considered gifted musically, but because the Cymri loved their music, not once did she pick up her harp to play, lest she arouse their animosity further. Occasionally, for she could not refrain from it, she sang; but her sweet voice had an "other" worldly quality to it. It seemed eerily strange to her critics, and so she sang only to Pwyll in the privacy of their chambers when they were alone.

And without Pwyll she usually was alone. Because of Bronwyn, no woman of the court would dare to be her friend. Still, Taran and Evan ap Rhys had included her as much as they dared; but even they were careful in her company lest ugly rumors be started by Bronwyn and her adherents. Nothing had mattered to her because she was so certain of her husband's love. Now she wondered if she even had his love, having obviously lost his trust.

What had happened to Pwyll? He had always seemed so strong. His reputation as a warrior was more than well known. It was the stuff of which legends were made. Yet today, before the judgment of his council, he had crumbled before her very surprised eyes. Knowing full well there was no magic left in her, he had nonetheless pleaded helplessly with her to work enchantments she no longer possessed. Surely he did not think her like the Cymri who said a thing while not meaning it at all. He had judged her as he would have judged his own people. Knowing—surely he had known!—that it must be he who must save her, and in that moment in time Rhiannon's unbelieving heart had been quite broken.

She wept now as she sat by the window of her chamber and stared out into a new night. No matter what they did to her, she intended surviving. She had to survive in order to find her child. Anwyl was not dead. Her maternal instinct assured her of that certainty. She wept again, for she promised herself that she would not weep further after this night was over, until the day her son was returned to her. The Cymri would not rejoice over her tears.

In the hour before the dawn, she heard the sound of the key turning in her lock, and the door opened to reveal two tall and muffled dark figures. Rhiannon opened her mouth to scream, believing them to be assassins, but then Taran's voice whispered urgently to her.

"Princess, do not cry out! Evan ap Rhys and I come as friends."

"What is it you want of me?" she asked them.

"Princess, we believe you when you say that your son has been stolen but you know not by whom. We want to find the child, but we do not know how or where to start. Once your punishment begins it will be dangerous to attempt to speak with you. So when we must communicate with you, we will stand near you, apparently speaking to each other. Be most careful when you answer us, and do not give Cynbel of Teifi or his daughter any cause to punish you further."

"I know Cynbel would set his daughter in my place," Rhiannon told them.

Taran nodded. "He would, but she is not all that she appears to be, though some be fooled by her docile ways. But tell us how we may help you, my gracious lady?"

"You must speak with the women who were set to watch over my son and me before they depart the castle," Rhiannon said. "Surely one of them saw something but was too afraid to speak it for fear of retribution by Bronwyn. Do not speak with them together, but rather interview them alone. There is one, a new maid just come to court, who would have been kind to me had she not been afraid of the chief lady-in-waiting. Only after you have spoken with these ladies can I direct you further."